Chapter 5 - The Godfather’s Reckoning
The South Side of Chicago was dark, industrial, and silent at 3:00 AM.
Inside an abandoned meatpacking plant near the river, Vincent Moretti sat in a plush velvet armchair, sipping fifty-year-old scotch. Four of his top lieutenants stood around him, while twenty armed guards patrolled the catwalks above the heavy steel processing machinery.
Vincent was a heavy, arrogant man of fifty-five, with slicked-back black hair, expensive gold rings, and a reputation for extreme brutality.
He checked his gold Rolex. 3:15 AM.
"Marco should have called by now," Vincent muttered, frowning into his glass. "It takes ten minutes to kill Damian Cross and his staff."
"Maybe the fog delayed them, Boss," one of his lieutenants suggested.
Before Vincent could reply, the heavy iron double doors at the front of the factory exploded inward with a deafening shockwave!
KABOOM!
A blinding flashbang grenade detonated inside the hall, filling the space with white light and ear-splitting noise!
Before the guards on the catwalks could recover their sight, three dark armored vehicles smashed through the wooden loading bays, their heavy V8 engines roaring like furious beasts!
Mercer enforcers in full tactical gear poured out of the vehicles, establishing a lethal perimeter in seconds!
"FIRE! KILL THEM ALL!" Vincent screamed, knocking over his table and diving behind a steel pillar as he drew his gold-plated revolver!
A fierce gunfight erupted across the factory floor, heavy automatic rounds tearing through iron pipes, sending white steam and sparks cascading down like rain!
Through the steam and fire, a single figure walked calmly down the central aisle.
Damian Cross walked without rushing, holding a heavy shotgun in his right hand. Every time he raised the barrel, a Moretti guard fell from the catwalk above with a heavy thud!
BOOM! A guard crashed onto a wooden pallet.
BOOM! A second guard tumbled over the railing into the dark water below.
Damian moved with terrifying, robotic precision. Within four minutes, all twenty of Vincent’s guards were disarmed, wounded, or dead. The remaining lieutenants had dropped their weapons, cowering behind the machinery.
Vincent Moretti crawled backward against the cold concrete floor, his expensive suit ruined, his golden revolver out of ammunition. He looked up to see Damian’s heavy combat boot step directly onto his wrist, pinning his arm to the ground.
"Damian! Wait!" Vincent panicked, his arrogant voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak. "We can make a deal! The river docks—you can have them all! One hundred percent! Just name your price!"
Damian racked the slide of his shotgun, the cold metallic sound echoing through the quiet factory. He leaned down, his face inches from Vincent’s sweating forehead.
"You sent hitmen into a house where a three-year-old child sleeps, Vincent," Damian said, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so full of absolute wrath, that Vincent’s breath hitched in his throat.
"I didn't know about the kid! I swear on my mother’s grave, I didn't know!" Vincent wept frantically.
"That doesn't matter to me," Damian whispered.
He didn't pull the trigger. Instead, Victor Reyes stepped forward, holding a pair of heavy federal steel restraints and a black leather folder filled with encrypted documents.
"Federal agents are four minutes away, Boss," Victor reported. "We’ve linked Vincent’s signature to three international trafficking operations and forty-two counts of extortion. He’s going to spend the rest of his natural life in a supermax prison in Colorado."
Vincent looked up at Damian in shock. "You... you’re turning me over to the Feds?"
Damian looked down at him with utter disgust. "Death is too easy for a rat like you, Vincent. In prison, you’ll wake up every single morning knowing that I own your docks, I own your territory, and I am eating breakfast with my family while you rot in a six-by-eight cell."
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Damian turned his back, walking toward his armored vehicle as federal sirens began to wail in the distance.
"Clean this place up, Victor," Damian called over his shoulder. "I have an appointment at 7:00 AM."
