Chapter 3
The South Side docks were battered by freezing rain as three black suburban SUVs pulled into the shadow of Warehouse 14.
Alessandro stepped out into the slick, wet dark, his black coat pulled tight against the biting wind. Behind him, eight Moretti enforcers stepped into formation, their hands tucked inside their jackets, ready for violence.
Inside the cavernous, dimly lit warehouse, Andrei Volkov—a high-ranking lieutenant in the Chicago Bratva—stood near a row of heavy wooden crates. Volkov was a bear of a man with a shaved head and a face crisscrossed with knife scars.
"Alessandro," Volkov greeted in a thick Russian accent, spreading his arms wide. "You come out in a blizzard. I am honored."
"Cut the theatricals, Andrei," Alessandro said, walking straight up to the crates. "This shipment was supposed to arrive on Thursday. Why is it here on Tuesday?"
Volkov smiled, revealing a gold-capped tooth. "Schedules change, my friend. Customs got eager. But there is small complication. The price we agreed upon last month... it went up by twenty percent."
Marco shifted behind Alessandro, his fingers twitching toward his weapon. Raising prices after a contract was sealed was an act of open aggression in their world.
Alessandro didn't flinch. "Twenty percent for cargo that arrived unscheduled?"
"Logistics are expensive in winter," Volkov sneered, his men subtly fanning out around the warehouse floor, stepping into tactical positions. "Take it or leave it, Moretti. But if you leave it, the cargo goes to the Vance syndicate by morning."
At the mention of the name Vance, Alessandro’s eyes narrowed sharply.
"Julian Vance?" Alessandro asked, his voice chillingly calm.
"Ah, so you know him," Volkov laughed softly. "Small-time loan shark trying to buy his way into big league distribution. He offered cash upfront. Full market price plus twenty percent."
Alessandro reached into his coat pocket. Volkov’s men instantly reached for their holsters, but Alessandro merely pulled out a sleek silver cigarette case, extracted a cigarette, and lit it with a heavy gold lighter. He took a slow drag, exhale rising in white clouds against the freezing air.
"Julian Vance is a dead man," Alessandro said casually.
Volkov laughed loudly, the sound echoing off the metal rafters. "Is that a threat, Moretti? Vance has police protection in the 4th district. You can't touch him without starting a war."
"I don't start wars, Andrei," Alessandro said, tossing the cigarette butt into a puddle of slush near Volkov’s boots. "I end them."
Without warning, Alessandro moved with terrifying speed. He drew his custom pistol from beneath his coat and fired two round into the kneecaps of Volkov’s two lead guards before anyone else could react.
Gunfire erupted inside the warehouse.
Alessandro ducked behind a concrete pillar, returning fire with lethal, surgical precision. Beside him, Marco and the Moretti enforcers advanced, their automatic weapons laying down a wall of lead that pinned Volkov’s men behind the wooden crates.
In less than ninety seconds, the warehouse fell dead quiet, saved for the groans of wounded men and the sizzle of hot bullet casings hitting the wet floor.
Volkov lay on his back near the crate, bleeding from his shoulder, his weapon tossed far out of reach.
Alessandro walked over, his boots stepping over shattered glass, and stood over the terrified Russian. He pointed his gun directly at Volkov’s forehead.
"Who told Vance about this shipment?" Alessandro demanded, his voice a flat line.
"A... a rat inside your logistics network," Volkov wheezed, clutching his shoulder. "I don't know his name! I swear to God! Vance paid him fifty thousand for the manifest!"
Alessandro lowered his gun slightly, looking down at Volkov with cold contempt. "You tell Julian Vance that if he looks toward the Moretti territory again, I won't just kill him. I'll erase everyone who carries his blood."
"Understood! Understood!" Volkov gasped.
Alessandro turned on his heel, walking out toward his waiting vehicle. "Marco, clean this up. And find out who sold the manifest."
"Right away, Boss," Marco replied. "Where are you going?"
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Alessandro climbed into the back seat of his SUV, brushing raindrops from his collar. His mind suddenly drifted away from the smell of cordite and blood, returning to the quiet, warm suite on the second floor of his mansion—where a little girl with a washcloth was currently sleeping soundly under the protection of his fierce beast.
"Back to the house," Alessandro said softly. "I have unfinished business."
