Chapter 3 - Blood And Iron In The Dark
Rain hammered against the corrugated metal roofs of the abandoned rail depot on the Far South Side. Thunder rolled low across Lake Michigan, vibrating through the muddy asphalt. Inside the cavernous warehouse, tied to an iron chair beneath a solitary swinging bulb, Marcus Hayes sat gasping for air, his custom Italian suit torn and soaked in grime.
Standing ten paces away, I tossed a thick manila folder onto a steel drum. The thud resonated like a gunshot.
“You’re out of your depth, Marcus,” I said smoothly, stepping into the yellow light.
Marcus spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at me with defiant, desperate malice. “You think you’re invincible, Valente? You’re weak! You let a twenty-four-year-old girl twist you around her finger for a year while your syndicate rotted from the inside! Your wife was snooping where she didn't belong! She was going to ruin everything I built!”
I stepped forward, my polished dress shoes clicking rhythmically against the concrete. Without blinking, I brought the back of my hand across his jaw. The crack echoed through the rafters, sending him and the iron chair toppling onto the cold floor.
“My wife had more honor in her little finger than your entire bloodline possesses,” I growled, planting my boot firmly onto his chest, pinning him against the concrete. “Clara walked into enemy territory without a weapon because she thought my life was on the line. You sent an armored truck to run down an unarmed woman. You are not a player, Marcus. You are a rat feeding on scraps under my table.”
“Kill me, then!” he sputtered, coughing violently under the pressure of my foot. “The Bratva has the docks! Lorenzo Moretti won't protect you! You’re finished in Chicago!”
Right on cue, the warehouse side doors creaked open. Through the rain stepped Lorenzo Moretti himself, flanked by four imposing enforcers. Lorenzo, gray-haired and scarred from forty years of street warfare, looked down at Hayes with pure disgust.
“You tried to start a war on my streets using my name, you little coward,” Moretti said, his gravelly voice dripping with disdain. He looked across the room at me, nodding respectfully. “Dominic. He approached two of my lieutenants yesterday offering twenty percent of your shipping yards to seal the hit on your wife. My men brought the offer straight to me. Nobody targets a man’s wife. There are codes we do not break.”
Moretti pulled an encrypted flash drive from his coat pocket and tossed it onto the drum. “That’s every bank account, safehouse, and shell company Marcus Hayes and his Russian partners possess. Take back what is yours, Valente. Chicago stays between us.”
“Thank you, Lorenzo,” I said, lifting my boot from Marcus’s chest.
Marcus’s eyes bulged in absolute terror as he realized his grand alliance had evaporated into thin air. He scrambled backward against the wall, weeping openly. “Dominic, please! Think of Serena! She loves you! Don’t do this!”
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I looked down at him with the cold indifference of a grim reaper. “Serena will spend the rest of her life in federal prison for conspiracy to commit murder, wire fraud, and grand larceny. Rebecca Lawson, Clara’s lawyer, already handed the federal prosecutor every file Clara gathered. As for you, Marcus... you won't be needing an attorney.”
I turned my back and walked toward the exit as Mateo and Moretti’s men stepped forward into the shadows. The sound of rain on the roof quickly drowned out the screams.
