Chapter 3 - The Purge of the PierAt 3:15 A.M., the industrial shipping complex at Pier 42 on the south side of Chicago was a frozen wasteland of iron containers, rusted cranes, and bitter salt spray from Lake Michigan.
The Falco family used Pier 42 as their primary distribution hub for contraband, illegal weapons, and off-ledger cash reserves. Tonight, thirty armed Falco enforcers patrol the perimeter, huddled around flaming oil drums to keep warm against the blizzard.
Four black, armor-plated Cadillacs glided silently down the access road, their headlights turned off, running solely on infrared night-vision tracking signals.
I sat in the rear seat of the lead vehicle, holding my heavy custom Sig Sauer pistol, checking the laser sights. Beside me sat Marcus, holding a tactical carbine, his expression hard as iron.
"Perimeter sentries are posted at the main gate and the secondary crane station, Don Nico," Marcus reported quietly, watching the thermal monitor on the dash. "Victor Rosse's vehicle is parked right outside Warehouse B."
"Victor is inside?" I asked.
"Thermal sensors confirm six body signatures inside the main office suite on the second floor," Marcus confirmed. "Victor is having a drink with Dominic Falco's younger brother, Anthony."
I reached out, racking the slide of my Sig Sauer, chambering a heavy nine-millimeter hollow-point round with a sharp, echoing CLICK.
"No survivors in Warehouse B, Marcus," I commanded softly. "Bring Anthony Falco to me alive. The rest belong to the lake."
"Understood, Don Nico."
Three minutes later, the assault began.
The muffled, rhythmic PFFT-PFFT of suppressed rifle fire cut through the roaring wind as Marcus’s team eliminated the exterior guards in seconds.
I pushed open the heavy steel side door of Warehouse B, stepping into the freezing, oil-scented gloom of the massive industrial building. High above on the second-floor iron catwalk, warm light spilled from the glass windows of the executive office suite.
I walked up the iron staircase, my heavy leather boots clicking loudly against the metal steps.
Inside the office, Anthony Falco—a thirty-two-year-old arrogant mobster in a leather jacket—and Victor Rosse sat around a mahogany table, drinking bourbon, counting stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
BOOM!
I kicked the heavy oak door off its hinges with a single, devastating impact. The door crashed flat onto the table, shattering glass and scattering money across the floor.
Victor Rosse reached for his shoulder holster with lightning speed, but before his hand could clear the leather, I raised my Sig Sauer and fired two rapid shots.
CRACK! CRACK!
The heavy rounds struck Victor’s right shoulder and wrist, shattering the bone, throwing his broad frame backward against the glass window wall. He shrieked in agony, collapsing flat onto the floorboards, blood pooling around his leather jacket.
Anthony Falco scrambled backward on his hands and knees, terror warping his handsome face as he backed into the corner of the desk.
"Nico! Nico, wait!" Anthony shrieked, throwing his hands up in a desperate plea. "This is a mistake! We have a peace treaty with the Marchetti family!"
I walked over to the desk, stopping two inches from where Anthony cowered on the floor. I didn't yell. I didn't curse. My storm-gray eyes were cold as glacier ice.
I reached down, grabbing Anthony by his silk collar, lifting his two-hundred-pound body off the ground with one hand, slamming him flat against the concrete wall.
"You touched my wife, Anthony," I whispered, my voice dropping into a quiet, apocalyptic register that made the young mobster shiver violently.
"I didn't do it! It was Victor! Dominic gave the order!" Anthony wept hysterically, blood dripping from his nose. "Dominic found her medical records! He said if we took out your heir, you'd surrender the shipping terminals!"
I slowly lowered the barrel of my gun, pressing the warm steel directly beneath Anthony's chin.
"Tell Dominic," I whispered softly into his ear, "that I am coming for his empire tomorrow night. And tell him that for every bruise on my wife's face, I am taking ten of his men."
CRACK.
I didn't shoot Anthony; I fired a round straight through the floorboards between his feet, sending concrete dust and sparks exploding over his pants.
Anthony collapsed into a senseless, weeping heap on the floor.
I turned around, stepping past the bleeding frame of Victor Rosse, looking at Marcus.
"Clean this warehouse," I commanded flatly. "And transfer fifty million dollars from the Falco shipping accounts directly into Elena's private trust fund."
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"Right away, Don Nico," Marcus replied with a respectful bow.
I pulled my charcoal coat over my shoulders, stepping out into the cold night air, my mind already returning to the hospital room where the only woman I had ever loved lay waiting for me.
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