Chapter 7 - The Trap is Set
Two nights later, the rain returned to Chicago, washing the asphalt of the south side in slick, shimmering neon.
Inside an abandoned warehouse near the rail yards of Cicero, the air smelled of rust, damp cardboard, and unwashed fear. Marco Rossi—the youngest and most volatile capo of the Rossi family—paced back and forth across the concrete floor, a silver-plated Beretta pistol gripped tightly in his right hand.
"She's supposed to be here," Marco snarled at the two enforcers standing near the rolling metal door. "We leaked the location of the backup hard drive through her old burner phone. She'll come for the proof."
"Boss, are you sure this is smart?" one of the enforcers muttered, wiping rain from his forehead. "Marchetti's men have been sniffing around the docks all week. If he finds out we're hunting his new pet..."
"Marchetti doesn't know where she is," Marco snapped. "He's too busy playing nursemaid to his damn dog."
He stepped toward the shadows of a wooden crate, raising his gun. "Come out, Dr. Vasquez. We know you're—"
The warehouse lights didn't flicker—they went completely black.
The heavy iron doors at both ends of the building slammed shut with a thunderous, mechanical crash, locking from the outside with a deafening clack of pneumatic bolts.
"What the hell?" Marco yelled, spinning around. "Generator! Turn on the backup generator!"
Before the lights could hum back to life, the sound of heavy boots echoed from the rafters. A red laser dot flickered across the concrete floor, dancing up the wall and stopping dead center on Marco Rossi’s forehead.
From the shadows near the loading dock, a slow, heavy footfall sounded.
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Dante Marchetti stepped into the pale beam of a single emergency light, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark wool overcoat. Behind him, Sal and half a dozen tactical operatives in matte-black gear fanned out with military precision, their weapons raised.
"Marco," Dante said, his voice smooth as ice. "You're trespassing."
