Chapter 8 - The Confrontation on the Water
The wooden planks of the deepwater pier were slick with spray and morning frost. Salvatore Marchetti stumbled along the edge, dragging a heavy aluminum briefcase packed with stolen bearer bonds and forged foreign passports. His fine Italian shoes slipped against the wet wood, his breath coming in ragged, wheezing gasps as he reached the mooring line of a seventy-foot luxury motor yacht.
""Cast off! Cast off now!"" Salvatore screamed at his hired boat captain.
A single gunshot cracked through the fog. The yacht’s mooring cleat sheared off in a shower of splintered teak and sparks. The boat captain took one look down the pier at the approaching figure of Roman Viscari, raised his hands in absolute surrender, cut the engine, and dove headfirst into the freezing lake waters to swim for his life.
""Coward! Come back here, you idiot!"" Salvatore shrieked, waving an ornate chrome pistol wildly into the gray mist.
Footsteps echoed steadily against the wooden dock. Roman emerged from the fog like an avenging specter, his trench coat billowing in the lake wind. His face was entirely devoid of emotion, a cold mask of absolute judgment.
""Put the gun down, Salvatore,"" Roman said quietly. ""You don't know how to use it anyway. You only know how to pay cowards to shoot men in the back of the neck.""
Salvatore backed up until the heels of his shoes hung over the black, churning waters of the slip. He pointed his trembling gun at Roman’s chest, his eyes wide and bloodshot with cornered madness.
""Stay back, Roman! I swear I’ll shoot! You think you’re a god in this city? You’re a relic! The world changed while you were busy playing king! The Petrovs offered me fifty million dollars and half of the Midwest distribution! Marco was going to ruin everything because of his stupid, childish conscience!""
""Marco was your friend,"" Roman said, taking another slow, deliberate step forward. ""He invited you to his wedding. He sat beside you at my mother’s funeral. You watched him grow from a boy, and you sold his life for paper.""
""He was soft!"" Salvatore screamed, his finger tightening on the trigger. ""And you’re too blind to see the truth! Die, Roman!""
Salvatore pulled the trigger.
The hammer fell with a dry, hollow click.
Salvatore stared down at the gun in horror. In his frantic panic, he had failed to rack a round into the chamber after loading the magazine.
Roman didn't fire his weapon. He closed the remaining distance in two massive strides, his left hand clamping around Salvatore’s throat like an iron vice, lifting the older man clean off his feet. Salvatore dropped his useless gun, clawing frantically at Roman’s wrists, his face turning a deep, suffocating purple.
Roman brought Salvatore’s face inches from his own. ""You gave poison to an innocent bird. You pointed guns at a five-year-old child. You killed my brother.""
Roman’s grip tightened until Salvatore’s eyes bulged with terror. Roman looked down at the silver signet ring on his right hand, the ring that Clara had carried on that folded scrap of paper.
""My family built this city,"" Roman whispered coldly into the traitor’s ear. ""And we do not permit rats to live in our house.""
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Roman threw Salvatore backward with savage, contemptuous force. Salvatore plummeted through the freezing air, striking the iron hull of an empty cargo barge before plunging into the icy depths of Lake Michigan.
Roman stood at the edge of the pier for a long moment, watching the black ripples disappear beneath the morning fog. He reholstered his weapon, adjusted the lapels of his coat, and walked back toward the warehouse where the sun was finally beginning to pierce the gray Chicago clouds.
