Chapter 6 - THE DRAGON UNCAGED
The damp, freezing mist rising off the Chicago River crept through the broken windows of the abandoned grain silo at the Calumet docks.
Vincent Moretti hung by his wrists from a heavy steel chain suspended from an overhead crane.
His leather jacket was gone. His white undershirt was soaked in black motor oil and crimson streaks. Both of his cheekbones were fractured, his left eye swollen shut, and three of his fingers hung at unnatural, sickening angles.
Standing in the shadows beneath the yellow work lights, Dante Russo slowly unbuttoned his suit cuffs and rolled his sleeves up past his forearms.
Frank Carlotti stood near the door, holding an iron crowbar and an unlit cigar. Six Russo soldiers lined the perimeter, their faces completely obscured by dark balaclavas.
“You’re out of your mind, Russo,” Vincent spat, a mouthful of dark blood splattering across the concrete floor. He coughed, wheezing as his bruised ribs strained against his lungs. “My old man... he’s got five hundred men mobilized between here and Cicero. If I don't check in by sunrise, they blow the gas lines under your western warehouses.”
Dante walked slowly across the floor, his polished leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone.
He didn't pick up a weapon. He didn't pick up a pair of pliers, a blowtorch, or a knife.
He simply stopped two feet in front of the hanging man, reaching into his pocket to pull out a pristine white handkerchief. Dante carefully wiped a speck of dust from his watch face.
“Your father doesn't have five hundred men anymore, Vincent,” Dante said, his tone as casual as a man discussing the morning weather forecast.
Vincent’s good eye widened slightly. “What the hell did you do?”
“At 1:00 AM, my men seized the Moretti distribution terminal on 47th Street,” Dante explained smoothly, checking the time. It was 3:45 AM. “At 1:45 AM, we severed the power grid to your father’s compound in River Forest. At 2:30 AM, your uncle Marco surrendered his entire shipping fleet in exchange for safe passage to Florida. He is currently on a private jet out of O'Hare. You are entirely alone, Vincent.”
Vincent swallowed hard, the bravado evaporating from his mangled face. “It wasn't my idea, Russo! It was the Laurent bitch! She came to us six months ago!”
Dante raised a hand. Vincent fell silent instantly, trembling under the weight of that simple gesture.
“Tell me every word she said,” Dante commanded.
“She... she said you were obsessed with your syndicate legacy,” Vincent stammered, blood dripping from his chin onto his bare chest. “She said you married Emily strictly out of obligation to an old pact with her dead father, but that you were embarrassed by her. Vanessa said she had you wrapped around her finger. She told us she could forge your signature on the transfer deeds and the divorce papers because she had access to your private legal seal.”
“And what did the Moretti family offer her in return?”
“Fifty percent of the riverfront port authority,” Vincent confessed, gasping for breath. “And your wife’s children.”
Dante tilted his head. “My children?”
“Vanessa didn't want them dead at first,” Vincent whispered, his voice cracking with terror. “She wanted to claim custody through the forged decree. She wanted to raise them as Moretti wards... to hold them over your head as eternal leverage. A leash around your neck for the rest of your life. But then Emily started asking questions... she tried to leave for the doctor... Vanessa panicked. She told me to take the phone and let the girl drop.”
Dante stood motionless for a long, suffocating moment.
The air in the silo seemed to drop twenty degrees. Even Frank, who had served the Russo family through three generational wars, felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine.
Dante stepped forward until his face was inches from Vincent’s ear.
“You laid your hands on my wife’s wrist,” Dante whispered.
“Dante... please... I was following orders—”
“You touched the mother of my heirs.” Dante reached out, took Vincent’s broken right arm by the elbow, and calmly, methodically, twisted it backward until the joint snapped like dry pine.
Vincent’s scream tore through the cavernous silo, echoing off the rusted metal beams until his voice cracked into a hoarse, ragged sob.
Dante stepped back, took out a clean silk handkerchief, and wiped his fingers.
“Frank.”
“Yes, Don Dante.”
“Lower him into the river. Anchor his feet to a concrete block. Let the cold take him slowly.”
“Understood, Boss.”
Dante turned and walked toward the heavy sliding doors of the silo.
As he stepped out into the freezing pre-dawn drizzle, he pulled his phone from his breast pocket and dialed a number.
“Leo.”
“Yes, Don Dante?”
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“Bring Vanessa Laurent to the grand ballroom at the estate. Have her dressed in the uniform she forced Emily to wear. It is time for her final performance.”
***
