Chapter 6 - Blood on the Marble
When Dominic Moretti received the call, he was sitting across from the Cook County Commissioner at an upscale steakhouse in River North.
Marco spoke only six words through the speaker: “They took her. Garage. South side.”
Dominic didn't finish his drink. He didn't say goodbye to the commissioner. He stood up, tossed a stack of hundred-dollar bills onto the table, and walked out the door with Sal half a step behind him.
By the time their black Cadillac Escalade reached the Marston Building garage, Dominic’s face was an expressionless mask of sheer, murderous detachment. Those who knew him well knew that a yelling Dominic was angry; a silent Dominic was preparing to execute people.
Marco was sitting against the concrete pillar, a paramedic wrapping gauze around his fractured scalp. When Marco saw his boss approaching, he tried to stand, shame burning in his eyes.
“Mr. Moretti... there were six of them. She fought like a tiger, boss. She took out two of them herself before they swarmed her.”
Dominic knelt down, his dark eyes taking in the scene. He saw Claire’s shattered briefcase, the spilled contents of her makeup pouch, and a dark smear of blood against the fender of a parked car. His hand drifted down, picking up a single silver earring shaped like a teardrop—the one she had been wearing that morning.
He closed his fist around the metal until the post bit into his skin, drawing a thin line of red across his palm.
“Who was driving the Charger?” Dominic asked Sal, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper.
“Traced the plates to a chop shop near Bridgeport,” Sal answered, holding up a tablet. “It’s one of Viktor Rossi’s secondary distribution centers. They think they’ve got leverage on you for the riverfront lease.”
Dominic stood up slowly. He smoothed the lapels of his charcoal coat.
“Call the brothers in Cicero,” Dominic instructed quietly. “Call the docks. Tell them the peace treaty signed in 2018 is terminated as of five minutes ago.”
Sal’s eyes widened slightly. “Boss... that means open war in three wards.”
“I don't give a damn about the wards,” Dominic snarled, his voice finally breaking into a volcanic, terrifying rage that made the paramedics freeze in their tracks. “He touched Claire. He put his hands on my woman. If Viktor Rossi thinks she is a bargaining chip, I am going to feed him the board piece by piece.”
Dominic turned toward the Escalade. “Get the heavy artillery from the warehouse. We are going to Bridgeport.”
Meanwhile, five miles south in an abandoned meatpacking cold-storage facility, Claire was tied to a heavy wooden chair beneath a single swinging fluorescent bulb.
The air smelled of rancid fat, damp concrete, and metallic rust. Her face ached where the fist had caught her, and her wrists were raw against the coarse hemp rope, but she refused to cry. Crying was what they wanted. Crying was what Ryan had wanted when he made her feel small.
Viktor Rossi walked out of the shadows, flanked by three armed men. He held an unlit cigar between his yellowed teeth.
“You caused quite a mess for my boys, Miss Bennett,” Rossi said, stopping two feet away. “Two fractured ribs and a broken nose. You’re quite the linebacker, aren't you?”
Claire stared at him through hair that had fallen across her face. The tape had been ripped from her mouth, leaving her skin stinging.
“You sent six men to kidnap an executive assistant because you lost a real estate bid,” Claire rasped, her voice dripping with pure scorn. “You’re not a mob boss, Rossi. You’re a pathetic, washed-up bully who throws tantrums when better men outsmart you.”
Rossi’s face twisted in rage. He stepped forward, raising his backhand to strike her.
Claire didn't flinch. She locked her eyes onto his, daring him with every fiber of her being.
Before Rossi’s hand could connect, the heavy steel security doors at the far end of the warehouse exploded inward with a deafening roar.
A concussion grenade detonated in the corridor, shattering the high windows into a million shards of raining glass. Automatic gunfire tore through the corrugated metal walls, lighting up the darkness with lethal strobes of muzzle flash.
Rossi stumbled backward, shouting in terror. “What the hell?! Kill the girl! Kill her now!”
One of Rossi’s gunmen raised his pistol toward Claire’s chest.
A single high-caliber rifle round tore through the shooter’s throat before his finger could squeeze the trigger. The man collapsed backward onto the blood-stained concrete.
Out of the smoke and drifting cordite walked Dominic Moretti.
He was not wearing his pristine suit coat anymore. In a dark tactical vest over rolled sleeves, holding a customized Benelli shotgun, he moved like an avenging demon through the fog. Sal and eight heavily armed operators flanked him, systematically clearing the room with surgical, merciless precision.
Rossi dropped his weapon, throwing his hands in the air, his knees shaking violently. “Dominic! Wait! We can negotiate! It was business—just business!”
Dominic didn't even look at Rossi. He lowered the shotgun into Sal’s waiting hands, stepped over a fallen body without breaking stride, and walked straight to Claire.
He dropped to his knees in the dirt and shattered glass before her chair. His hands were shaking as he pulled a tactical knife from his belt and sliced through the ropes binding her wrists.
“Claire,” he choked out, his voice cracking with an emotion she had never heard from him before. “Look at me. Look at me, sweetheart.”
Claire leaned forward, burying her bruised face into the crook of his neck. The scent of gunpowder and cedar enveloped her. She felt his massive arms wrap around her waist, pulling her against his chest as if he would never let her go.
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“I’m okay,” she whispered, tears finally escaping down her cheeks. “I didn't tell them anything, Dominic. I didn't break.”
Dominic kissed her forehead, her cheek, and finally the corner of her swollen mouth, his grip desperate and possessive. “You never could break, Claire. You’re the strongest thing that ever happened to me.”
