Chapter 6 - The Strike on Cicero
The snow was still falling thick and heavy over Chicago when Alessandro Moretti’s convoy of four unmarked black armored Suburbans slid silently through the tollbooths leading into Cicero, the stronghold of the rival North Side Outfit.
Inside the lead vehicle, Alessandro sat in total silence, methodically sliding fresh magazine clips into a suppressed Glock 19. His face was carved from granite. Beside him sat Mateo, tapping anxiously on a ruggedized military tablet displaying real-time thermal feeds of an abandoned rail yard warehouse—Salvatore Russo’s primary staging ground.
“We have eyes on the perimeter, Boss,” Mateo reported, his voice low. “Four guards at the main loading dock, two inside the office trailer. Russo is inside with his inner circle. They think we’re still licking our wounds from the attack on the estate.”
“They mistake defense for weakness,” Alessandro said coldly. “Kill the lights.”
The convoy cut its headlights half a mile from the rail yard, rolling forward on momentum alone through the blinding white squall.
When the vehicles stopped, the doors opened in unison. Eighteen elite Moretti enforcers fanned out into the frozen night like ghosts, swallowed by the swirling snow. There was no shouting, no hesitation—only the silent, deadly choreography of professional soldiers.
Alessandro moved with them, a dark specter cutting through the freezing mist.
At the loading dock, two of Russo’s guards were sharing a cigarette, laughing about some late-night football score. They never saw the shadows detach from the wall. Two quick, muffled thuds echoed softly over the wind as Mateo and another enforcer neutralized them with precision chokeholds, lowering their bodies gently into the snow.
“Perimeter clear,” Mateo murmured into his comms.
Alessandro gestured toward the rusted steel side door of the warehouse. He raised his hand, counted down with three fingers, two, one—and kicked the door inward with a force that shattered the rusted lock.
The interior of the warehouse was a cavernous expanse of stacked shipping containers, dim overhead halogen lamps, and the smell of cheap diesel fuel and stale beer.
At a makeshift poker table in the center of the room, Salvatore Russo—a slick, silver-haired man in an expensive cashmere sweater—was laughing with three of his top lieutenants as stacks of cash sat piled in the center.
“Moretti is holed up in that stone tomb of his,” Russo sneered, dealing a fresh hand. “Give it another week and we’ll—"
“You’ll what, Salvatore?”
The voice cut through the cavern like the blade of a guillotine.
Russo’s head snapped up. The poker cards slipped from his fingers, fluttering down like dead leaves onto the concrete.
Striding out from the shadows beneath the catwalk, Alessandro Moretti looked like a god of vengeance. His black overcoat billowed slightly behind him, his dark eyes locked onto Russo with an expression of pure, unadulterated contempt. Behind him, a dozen armed men fanned out, their rifles locked and loaded.
“Alessandro!” Russo stammered, scrambling backward out of his chair, his hand clawing frantically for the snub-nosed revolver tucked into his belt.
Before Russo’s fingers could even brush the grip, a single gunshot shattered the air.
Bang.
May you like
The bullet slammed into the concrete floor precisely one inch from Russo’s expensive Italian leather shoe, sending a shower of sparks flying into the air. Russo froze, his face draining of all color, trembling like a leaf.
“Reach for that gun again, Salvatore,” Alessandro said softly, stepping closer until he stood towering over the terrified capo, “and the next bullet won't miss your knee.”
