They Shaved the Waitress’s Head for a Laugh, Then Her Husband Walked In and Every Powerful Man in the Room Stopped Breathing

The ambush occurred on the lower level of Wacker Drive, a labyrinth of concrete pillars and shadows beneath the city streets.

Three dark sedans cut off Dominic’s armored vehicle, their doors flying open as Vance's mercenaries emerged with automatic weapons. They opened fire, the deafening roar of gunshots echoing through the subterranean roadway.

But Dominic’s vehicle wasn't alone.

From the side ramps, four massive heavy-duty construction trucks—vehicles owned by the very unions Richard Hale had tried to break—slammed into the mercenaries' cars, crushing them against the concrete walls.

Dominic stepped out of the rear seat of his car, his weapon drawn. The conflict was short, sharp, and decisive. The Vale organization moved with absolute efficiency, neutralizing the threat before the local police precinct even received the first call about shots fired.

Dominic walked over to the last remaining vehicle, where Vance was trapped behind a deployed airbag, his leg pinned by the crushed dashboard.

Dominic reached through the shattered window, grabbing Vance by his collar. "Tell Richard Hale that his contract has expired."

An hour later, Dominic walked into the main office of the Hale Corporation. Richard Hale was sitting alone in the dark, a bottle of cheap scotch on his desk, waiting for a phone call that would never come.

The door opened, and Dominic walked in, tossing a burner phone onto the desk. It was Vance's phone, slick with rain and blood.

"Your friends from Detroit won't be joining us for breakfast, Richard," Dominic said, leaning against the doorframe.