Chapter 8 - The Falcone Retaliation
Peace in the underworld, however, is a fragile thing.
In late autumn, Don Sal Falcone passed away from a sudden heart attack. His eldest son, Marco Falcone—a hot-headed, ruthless sociopath who had long hated Alexander Moretti—assumed control of the South Side outfit.
Marco didn't care about territorial treaties. He wanted revenge for the humiliation his father had suffered at the warehouse, and he knew exactly where Alexander’s heart lay.
It happened on a crisp Thursday afternoon.
Emily was leaving her art studio downtown, accompanied by Dante. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, a heavy delivery van ran a red light, T-boning Dante’s parked SUV with crushing force.
Before Dante could recover from the impact, four masked gunmen poured out of the van, opening fire with automatic weapons.
Dante reacted instantly, pushing Emily behind a concrete pillar and drawing his weapon, returning fire into the alleyway. "Get inside, Emily! Go!" he roared, taking a bullet to the shoulder as he blocked the doorway with his body.
Emily screamed as Dante collapsed against the glass doors. She knelt beside him, pressing her coat against his bleeding chest.
Two masked men stepped through the shattered glass, their weapons raised.
"Get up, lady," one of them growled, grabbing her by the arm. "Marco wants to have a word with Moretti’s little prize."
Emily thrashed, fighting back with everything she had, scratching at the man’s face, but the second gunman struck her across the temple with the butt of his pistol. Darkness swirled at the edges of her vision as they dragged her out toward an idling black van.
As she was shoved into the back of the vehicle, her phone fell from her pocket onto the wet pavement, its screen cracked and glowing with an incoming call from Alexander.
Fifteen minutes later, Alexander stood in the middle of the shattered art gallery lobby.
Dante was being loaded onto a stretcher by paramedics, barely conscious. On the ground lay Emily’s cracked phone, its screen stained with a single drop of blood.
Alexander picked up the phone. His face did not twist with rage. He did not shout.
Instead, he went entirely, terrifyingly still. His grey eyes turned into two shards of polished ice, his breathing becoming so slow and controlled that the men standing around him backed away in absolute terror.
Frank, his second-in-command, stepped up, his voice trembling. "Boss... we traced the van. It went straight to Marco Falcone’s meatpacking plant in South Chicago."
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Alexander turned slowly. He looked at the forty armed men standing outside the gallery—his top lieutenants, his tactical teams, his enforcers.
"No law," Alexander said, his voice dropping into a terrifying register that made every man’s spine freeze. "No protocols. No negotiations. Tonight... we exterminate the Falcone family."
