Chapter 7 - The Midnight Ambush
The private airstrip thirty miles west of Chicago was wrapped in a thick, eerie fog that rolled in from the marshlands.
At 11:58 PM, a sleek Gulfstream private jet touched down on the tarmac, its twin jet engines whining softly as it taxied toward the private hangar leased by European shell companies.
The cabin door opened, and a folding metal staircase slid down.
Dante Moretti stepped out onto the tarmac. He was a tall, imposing man with silver-streaked hair, sharp aristocratic features, and cold, dead eyes that mirrored Marco's, though entirely devoid of honor. He wore a heavy wool trench coat, flanked by four heavily armed mercenaries holding suppressors on their rifles.
"Welcome back to Chicago, Dante," a voice echoed through the foggy night.
Dante stopped dead in his tracks.
From the shadows of the darkened hangar, Marco Morti stepped forward into the amber glow of the runway lights. He wasn't alone. Twelve elite enforcers stood behind him, their assault rifles raised, forming an impenetrable wall of tactical steel.
Dante didn't flinch. Instead, a twisted, arrogant grin spread across his face.
"Marco," Dante called out, spreading his arms wide as if greeting a long-lost brother. "I wondered if you'd have the stomach to show up yourself. I'm sorry about the boy—truly. But war has casualties."
"You killed my son," Marco said, his voice steady, carrying across the tarmac with lethal clarity. "And you sent mercenaries into my home to terrify my little girl."
"And yet, here you are, standing alone," Dante mocked, signaling his men to raise their weapons. "You think a dozen men can stop an army funded by the European syndicates?"
"I don't think," Marco replied coldly. "I know."
Before Dante’s mercenaries could squeeze their triggers, the floodlights mounted along the hangar roof suddenly blazed to life, blinding them with ten thousand watts of artificial daylight. At the same time, the distinct, rhythmic thud of rotor blades beat against the night air from above.
Two tactical helicopters hovered directly over the tarmac, their heavy door-mounted machine guns locked onto Dante’s strike team.
Dante’s arrogant smile vanished instantly. His men lowered their weapons, realizing in a single horrifying heartbeat that they had walked directly into a slaughterhouse.
"Drop your weapons," Marco commanded, stepping closer, his Glock leveled directly at Dante’s chest. "Now."
Dante’s mercenaries immediately tossed their rifles onto the wet asphalt and raised their hands.
Dante stood frozen, his chest heaving with rage and disbelief. He looked around at the overwhelming force surrounding him, and then back at his cousin.
"You set a trap," Dante spat, his voice shaking.
"You threatened my family," Marco replied. He didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, bringing the butt of his pistol down across Dante’s jaw in a blinding, ferocious arc.
Dante crashed hard onto the tarmac, bleeding from a split lip, gasping for air as Marco’s boot came down firmly on his chest, pinning him to the ground.
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"You're not going to Europe, Dante," Marco whispered, leaning down so only his cousin could hear. "You're going to a hole in the ground where nobody will ever hear you scream again—right next to the memory of what you tried to destroy."
He signaled Luca. "Tie him up and throw him in the back of the transport. We're going home."
