Chapter 7 - The Assault on Pier 42
The night was pitch black, a thick industrial fog rolling off Lake Michigan, swallowing the abandoned shipping warehouses along Pier 42.
Inside a heavily fortified concrete warehouse at the end of the pier, Don Carmine Falcone, his son Mateo, and his daughter Gianna sat around a metal table illuminated by hanging industrial lamps. Twenty heavily armed Falcone soldiers stood guard around the perimeter, their rifles trained on the heavy iron doors.
Gianna Falcone paced back and forth, her white suit immaculate, her face contorted in nervous frustration.
"He should have called by now, Mateo!" Gianna snapped, checking her diamond wristwatch. "It takes ten minutes to poison a tea set!"
"Relax, sister," Mateo grunted, loading a fresh magazine into his submachine gun. "Even if the hitman failed, Moretti won't attack us here. This warehouse has three-foot-thick reinforced concrete walls. It's a fortress."
"Moretti isn't coming alone, Mateo," Carmine rasped from his chair, his old eyes staring into the dark corners of the room. "The girl is Isabella’s daughter. If she died tonight, Marco won't follow mob rules. He will tear down the world."
Suddenly, the lights inside the warehouse went completely black.
The roar of the industrial generator outside cut out instantly.
"What the hell?!" Mateo yelled, clicking on his weapon's flashlight. "Check the perimeter!"
Before the guards could move, a deafening explosion tore through the northern wall of the warehouse.
Reinforced concrete shattered into millions of flying projectiles. High-intensity tactical flashlights cut through the blinding dust, followed immediately by the terrifying, rhythmic thunder of heavy automatic gunfire.
"ROMANO! MORETTI!" voices roared through the dust.
Marco stepped through the breach like an unstoppable demon.
He wore heavy tactical armor over a black shirt, two custom automatic pistols in his hands, laying down a rain of suppressive fire that cut down five Falcone guards before they could even raise their weapons.
Behind him came Dominic Rossi and forty elite Moretti soldiers, sweeping through the warehouse with cold, military precision.
"Kill them! Kill them all!" Mateo shrieked, firing blindly into the dust.
In the back of the warehouse, near the rear exit leading to the docks, Gianna Falcone grabbed a briefcase filled with bearer bonds and backed away toward the door.
"Father, we have to go!" Gianna panicked, grabbing Carmine’s arm.
"No one is going anywhere, Gianna."
A clear, cold voice rang out from the shadows near the rear exit.
Gianna spun around, raising her small nickel-plated pistol.
I stepped out from behind a stack of wooden crates.
I wore dark tactical trousers, a heavy leather jacket, and my dark hair pulled back into a tight braid. In my hand, I held the black semi-automatic pistol, my aim steady, my eyes cold and unwavering.
Gianna stared at me in absolute horror. "You... you were supposed to be dead! You drank the tea!"
"I gave the tea to the plants, Gianna," I said, stepping closer, the laser sight of my pistol settling directly on her forehead. "They didn't like it very much."
Gianna let out a hysterical scream and raised her weapon.
BANG.
I fired once. The bullet struck Gianna’s wrist, sending her nickel-plated pistol spinning into the dark water beneath the pier floorboards. She collapsed to her knees, clutching her shattered hand, crying out in pain and shock.
Across the warehouse, the gunfire suddenly stopped.
The remaining Falcone guards lay dead or disarmed on the floor. Mateo Falcone was pinned to the concrete floor by Dominic’s boot, a shotgun pressed against his neck.
Marco walked slowly through the drifting smoke, his tactical armor covered in dust and blood. He walked past the groaning form of Mateo, stepping up beside me.
He looked down at Gianna, then turned his gaze onto old Carmine Falcone, who sat motionless in his chair, knowing his empire had reached its final, pathetic hour.
Marco reached out, taking my hand in his, his fingers intertwining with mine.
"It’s over, Carmine," Marco said quietly, his voice echoing through the silent warehouse. "Twenty-two years ago, you killed Lorenzo and Isabella Moretti to take their territory. Tonight, their daughter takes it back."
Carmine looked at me, his pale eyes defeated, his hands trembling as he rested them on the table.
"What... what are you going to do with us?" the old Don rasped softly.
I stepped forward, looking down at the man who had caused two decades of bloodshed and terror.
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"You will sign over all southern port assets to the Moretti family," I commanded, my voice carrying the absolute authority of a true Don’s daughter. "You and your children will be banished from Chicago forever. If any Falcone ever sets foot in this state again... my husband won't need to hunt you down. I will do it myself."
Carmine stared at me for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, he bowed his head.
