Chapter 6 - The Siege of the Dockyard
Rain poured down in relentless sheets over the industrial shipping docks along the Chicago River. Heavy steel containers were stacked four stories high, forming dark, narrow alleys beneath flickering yellow sodium lights.
Inside Warehouse 14, Don Falcone sat behind a desk surrounded by a dozen heavily armed men. Marco Rossi stood beside him, clutching a bandaged shoulder where Roman had hit him earlier.
“Are you sure the strike team finished him?” Falcone growled, chewing on an unlit cigar.
“They went in ten minutes ago, Don Falcone,” Marco replied nervously. “Roman was already burned and injured. There’s no way he survived six tactical mercenaries.”
Suddenly, the massive corrugated iron doors of the warehouse were ripped off their tracks by a heavy armored transport vehicle slamming through them at fifty miles per hour.
Metal shrieked, glass shattered, and concrete dust exploded into the air.
Before Falcone’s men could react, flashbang grenades rained down from the shattered skylights above. Blindening white light and deafening detonations disoriented the mercenaries.
Roman DeLuca stepped out of the armored vehicle wearing heavy tactical body armor, flanked by twenty of his most elite men.
“DeLuca!” Falcone screamed, scrambling behind his steel desk while pulling a revolver. “Kill him! Kill them all!”
A ferocious firefight erupted inside the warehouse. Automatic gunfire echoed off the high metal beams, sparks flying everywhere as bullets tore through steel shipping crates and wooden pallets.
Roman moved forward relentlessly, his rifle barked with lethal precision. He swept through Falcone’s guards like an unstoppable force of nature, driven by the knowledge that as long as Falcone lived, Maya and Sofie would never be safe.
Marco tried to sneak out through a side emergency exit, but Vince cut him off, slamming him into a stack of oil drums and snapping handcuffs around his wrists.
“You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a supermax facility, Marco,” Vince spat.
Inside the office, Roman kicked open the door. Falcone was crouching behind his safe, his gun shaking uncontrollably as he aimed it at Roman’s chest.
“Stay back, Roman!” Falcone yelled hysterically. “I have politicians in my pocket! I have judges! You touch me, and the entire city will hunt you down!”
Roman walked forward calmly, ignoring the gun pointed at his heart. He reached out with his bare hand, grabbed the barrel of Falcone’s revolver, and twisted it out of the old man’s grip with effortlessly brutal strength.
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Roman tossed the gun aside, grabbed Falcone by his silk collar, and lifted him off his feet.
“You tried to burn a three-year-old child alive in my shed, Falcone,” Roman whispered, his dark eyes burning with pure vengeance. “Your politicians can’t save you from me.”
