Chapter 3 - The Trap at the Slaughterhouse
The wind howling off the Chicago riverfront cut right through my light jacket as Daniel’s SUV rumbled to a halt outside the abandoned Union Stockyards slaughterhouse. The massive brick building loomed against the ink-black sky like a decaying cathedral of industrial horrors.
“Stay in the vehicle,” Daniel ordered, his hand resting on the Sig Sauer pistol holstered beneath his suit jacket.
“Not a chance,” I shot back, throwing my door open and stepping out onto the frozen asphalt. “That’s my brother in there. You might treat this like a turf war, but I’m walking through those doors with you.”
Daniel stared at me, a flicker of grudging respect crossing his harsh features. He didn't argue further. Instead, he signaled to his lead enforcer, a hulking man named Salvatore. “Hold perimeter. If we aren't out in forty minutes, burn the place down.”
We slipped through a rusted side door into the cavernous, freezing interior of the meatpacking plant. Overhead pipes dripped murky water onto blood-stained concrete floors. The air smelled of old iron, dust, and rotting timber.
“Michael!” I called out, my voice echoing off the high rafters.
“Shut up, Rachel,” Daniel hissed, holding his pistol up and scanning the shadows. “They want us to walk into their kill zone.”
Suddenly, the overhead halogen floodlights flickered on, blinding us with artificial glare.
From the upper catwalk overlooking the main processing floor, a slow, mocking clap echoed through the cavern.
“Well, well, well,” a smooth, greasy voice rang out. “The great Daniel Russo, gracing us with his presence. And he brought a nurse as a date. How touching.”
I squinted upward. Standing on the metal grating was Victor Vance—Daniel’s primary rival in the North Side drug and shipping syndicates. And tied securely to a steel pillar beside him was Michael, his face bruised, his lips split, looking terrified out of his mind.
“Rachel!” Michael sobbed, struggling against the ropes. “I’m sorry! I didn't mean to—!”
“Shut your mouth, kid,” Vance barked, stepping forward and pressing the barrel of a pistol against Michael’s temple. He looked down at Daniel with a triumphant grin. “Drop the weapon, Russo. Unless you want the boy’s brains painted across the concrete.”
Daniel didn't drop his gun. But he didn't raise it either. His face was a mask of cold, calculating fury.
“Vance,” Daniel said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the large room. “You’ve got guts, coming back across the river after I burned your warehouses last month.”
“I have something better than guts, Daniel. I have the ledger,” Vance laughed, pulling a weathered black leather notebook from his jacket. “The financial records proving that your most trusted capos were the ones who leaked your convoy route to the cops the night Camille died. Your own people set her up, Russo. Not me.”
My breath caught in my throat. I looked at Daniel. The color had completely drained from his face.
“That’s a lie,” Daniel growled.
“Is it?” Vance sneered. “Ask the kid! Why do you think he stole fifty grand from your accounts? He wasn't paying gambling debts. He was trying to buy this exact ledger from my broker so he could protect you!”
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Michael sobbed louder, nodding frantically from the pillar. “It’s true, Daniel! I swear! I found out someone inside your inner circle planned the hit, and I was trying to get the proof to warn you before they killed me too!”
Vance cocked his pistol. “Now, drop your weapon, Daniel, or the kid takes a bullet right between the eyes.”
