Chapter 9
The ambush was a masterclass in tactical brutality. Sniper fire from the overlooking cranes dropped the Volkov lookouts in seconds. Then, armored SUVs crashed through the chain-link gates, disgorging Greco soldiers who laid down a withering crossfire.
The bright, explosive flashes of muzzle fire illuminated the dark docks. The Russians, caught entirely off guard, scrambled for cover behind the shipping containers, but there was nowhere to hide. Vittorio’s men moved with clinical precision, advancing systematically, clearing the tarmac foot by foot.
Vittorio walked through the center of the battlefield. He did not run. He moved with that same slow, terrifying calm he had shown in the concert hall. He fired his weapon only when necessary, his shots placed with lethal accuracy. His tailored clothes remained unruffled, his face an emotionless mask.
Within fifteen minutes, the docks were silent, save for the moans of the dying and the crackle of a burning truck. The Russian presence had been obliterated.
"Boss," Marcus called out, stepping over a fallen body. "We have him."
Vittorio followed Marcus toward a small, bullet-riddled office near the edge of the pier. Inside, two Greco soldiers were holding a large, bloody man to his knees. Sergei Volkov, the head of the Russian operation in Chicago, looked up at Vittorio with pure, unadulterated hatred.
"You are a dead man, Greco," Sergei spat, his thick accent laced with pain. "My brothers in Moscow will send an army."
Vittorio stepped into the room, the bright, harsh light from the ceiling bulb casting sharp shadows across his angular face.
"Your brothers in Moscow will receive your head in a box by Friday," Vittorio said, his voice a low, raspy whisper. "You tried to buy my family. You tried to poison my city."
Vittorio grabbed Sergei by the collar, hauling the heavy man to his feet with terrifying strength.
"Owen Greco offered you a kingdom," Vittorio murmured, staring into the Russian's terrified eyes. "I am going to show you a slaughterhouse."
Vittorio dragged Sergei out of the office and threw him into the back of a waiting SUV.
The drive to the abandoned steel mill on the outskirts of the city took twenty minutes. The mill was a cavernous, rust-filled cathedral of forgotten industry. Vittorio had Sergei strapped to a heavy iron chair in the center of the main floor.
"You thought because I care for my crippled son, I had lost my edge," Vittorio said, walking slowly around the bound man. He removed his leather jacket, rolling up his sleeves to reveal the intricate, artistic tattoos that covered his forearms.
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"I am going to take my time with you, Sergei," Vittorio promised, picking up a heavy steel wrench from a nearby workbench. "And when I am finished, every syndicate in the country will know exactly what happens when you threaten the Greco bloodline."
The screams that echoed through the steel mill that night were long, agonizing, and completely ignored by the dark, sleeping city outside.
