Chapter 8 - The Calumet Docks
The Calumet industrial river basin was a bleak wasteland of rusted cranes, decaying shipping containers, and freezing black water choked with chunks of drifting ice. An old, salt-crusted warehouse sat at the edge of the pier, its corrugated metal walls rattling violently in the biting December wind.
Inside, huddled around an industrial kerosene heater that sputtered noxious yellow fumes, sat Patricia and Harrison Davenport.
Patricia was wrapped in an old mink coat that had seen better days, her aristocratic makeup ruined by streaks of nervous sweat and smudged mascara. Harrison was pacing frantically across the oil-stained concrete, chewing his fingernails down to the quick, jumping at every groan of the metal roof.
"They should have called by now, Mother!" Harrison cried, his voice shrill with hysterics. "It’s been over an hour! If Moretti was there, those men never stood a chance! We should have taken the flight to Costa Rica! Why did you make us stay for the confirmation?"
"Shut up, you spineless coward!" Patricia snapped, though her own hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold her cigarette. "That girl stole everything from us! The board rejected your appeal, our bank accounts are frozen, and my friends won't even return my calls! If Khloe dies, the trust defaults back to the legal heirs—to you! The police will write it off as an underworld hit gone wrong because of her association with that Moretti gangster. It is a foolproof plan!"
"Foolproof is a very ambitious word for someone of your limited intellect, Patricia."
The calm, resonant voice cut through the cavernous warehouse like an icepick.
Patricia froze. Harrison let out a whimpering gasp, spinning toward the darkness near the loading bay doors.
Out of the freezing shadows, illuminated by the pale moonlight filtering through cracked skylights, walked Roman Moretti. He wore his heavy black overcoat unbuttoned, his hands buried casually in his pockets, flanked by eight heavily armed men moving in silent, lethal formation.
And walking right beside him, completely unharmed, her head held high and her eyes burning with righteous fury, was Khloe.
"No..." Patricia whispered, the cigarette falling from her lifeless fingers and sizzling against the damp concrete. "No, this is impossible. The men... they were professionals..."
"Your professionals are currently being processed into fish food in Lake Michigan," Roman said, stepping into the ring of light cast by the kerosene heater. "You hired cut-rate garbage with stolen money, Patricia. You really have no concept of how the real world operates, do you?"
Harrison fell to his knees immediately, clasping his hands in a frantic, groveling plea. "Khloe! Khloe, please! It was her! It was all Mother's idea! She contacted the brokers! She took the last of the family cash! I told her not to! I told her to let it go! Please, Khloe, we were family! Liam loved me!"
"Liam pitied you, Harrison," Khloe said, her voice dropping like liquid nitrogen into the room. She looked down at the man who had tormented her, who had sneered at her background, who had tried to leave her to freeze to death on a rainy sidewalk. "You forged his dying wishes. You stole his medicine. And tonight, you sent armed assassins into the house he built for us. You are not my family. You are a disease."
"You can't kill us!" Patricia suddenly shrieked, backing away toward the edge of the pier doors where the black river churned below. "We are Davenports! The city will look for us! The media will hound you to the ends of the earth!"
Roman pulled a slender silver phone from his pocket, dialing a number and hitting the speaker button.
After two rings, the resonant, authoritative voice of the Chicago Chief of Police answered. "Yes, Mr. Moretti?"
"Chief," Roman said smoothly, never taking his eyes off Patricia. "I am currently at Pier 42 in Calumet. I have apprehended the two individuals responsible for orchestrating the armed domestic terrorist assault on the Astor Street historic district tonight. They are in possession of illegal bearer bonds and direct wire trails to international contract killers."
*"Understood, Roman,"* the police chief replied without hesitation. "Tactical units and state prosecutors are en route. The mayor’s office has already been briefed. This will be the lead story on every national broadcast by dawn. Attempted capital murder and treasonous enterprise conspiracy."
Roman tapped the screen, ending the call.
Patricia’s knees buckled. She collapsed onto the cold concrete beside her sobbing son. The illusion of her grand untouchability, her social immunity, her elite pedigree—it had all evaporated into thin air. She wasn't facing a gangland execution that would turn her into a tragic victim; she was facing a public, humiliating trial that would strip every shred of dignity from the Davenport name and put her in an orange jumpsuit for the rest of her natural life.
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"I could put a bullet in both of your heads right now," Roman whispered, his tone terrifyingly neutral. "The river is deep, and the ice is thick. No one would ever find the bones. But Khloe requested something far more fitting for you."
Roman stepped back, turning to Khloe with a slight, respectful inclination of his head. "The floor is yours, Mrs. Davenport."
