Chapter 4 - The South Side Canal
The rain had turned into a freezing downpour by the time Roman’s convoy reached the industrial wasteland of the south side canal.
The old shipping docks were a graveyard of rusted iron, rotting wood, and abandoned concrete warehouses that had once been the beating heart of Chicago’s manufacturing empire. Now, they were used only by smugglers, drug dealers, and the men who did the Outfit’s dirtiest work.
Roman’s black SUV pulled up behind an old grain elevator, its headlights switched off. He stepped out into the cold mud, his leather gloves tightening around the grip of his weapon.
Ahead of him stood Warehouse 12, its corrugated steel walls covered in rust, a single, flickering yellow bulb illuminating the loading dock door.
Inside, the sound of the rain was a deafening, rhythmic roar against the metal roof.
Victor Moretti sat in a rusted metal chair in the center of the warehouse, a thick wool coat draped over his shoulders. He was seventy-one, with a face that looked like it had been carved from a block of dry pine, his gray hair cropped close to his skull. On his right hand, a massive gold ring shaped like a snarling wolf caught the dim light of the overhead bulb.
Two of his enforcers stood beside him, their hands tucked into their coats, their eyes scanning the dark corners of the building.
"He’s late," Moretti muttered, his voice dry and gravelly. "The team should have reached the harbor by now."
"The rain is heavy, Mr. Moretti," one of the enforcers said. "The traffic on the bridge—"
The heavy wooden doors of the warehouse suddenly exploded inward, shattered by the force of a high-speed vehicle.
A black SUV tore through the opening, its tires spinning in the wet dirt as it slid to a halt in the center of the room. The doors flew open, and Roman DeLuca stepped out, his weapon firing before his feet even hit the ground.
The two enforcers didn't even have time to reach for their guns.
They fell where they stood, their bodies crashing onto the wooden pallets as Roman advanced, his face a mask of cold, unstoppable fury.
Victor Moretti did not run. He was too old, too tired, and he knew Roman DeLuca too well to believe he could escape. He sat in his chair, his hands resting on his knees, his gray eyes watching Roman approach with a quiet, bitter resignation.
"Roman," Moretti said, his voice level despite the dead men lying five feet away. "You always did have a flare for the dramatic."
Roman stopped three feet from the older man, his gun pointed directly at Moretti’s forehead.
"You killed Claire," Roman said, his voice dropping into a register that was colder than the rain outside.
"She was a distraction, Roman," Moretti said, a faint, mocking smile touching his thin lips. "Your father built an empire. He wanted you to lead the entire Midwest. But you were soft. You spent six months looking for a girl from Springfield when you should have been securing the docks. I did what Vito would have done."
"Vito is dead," Roman said. "And so are you."
"You won't kill me, Roman," Moretti sneered, pointing to his gold ring. "The commission... the other families... they won't let you start a full-scale war over a girl who left you twenty years ago."
"She didn't leave me because she didn't love me, Victor," Roman said, his voice shaking with a sudden, raw emotion. "She left because she was pregnant. She was trying to protect my daughter from monsters like you."
Moretti’s smile vanished. "A daughter?"
"Her name is Emma," Roman said, his finger tightening on the trigger. "She’s nine years old. She has her mother’s eyes. And she told me that a man with a gold wolf ring was standing outside her school."
Moretti’s face finally lost its color. He looked at the gun, then up at Roman’s eyes, and for the first time in thirty years, the wolf of Chicago felt the cold, suffocating grip of real terror.
"Roman... wait," Moretti stammered, his hand reaching out. "We can make a deal... the northern terminals... I’ll sign them over—"
"I don't want your terminals, Victor," Roman said.
He fired once.
The sound of the shot was lost in the roar of the rain against the metal roof.
Moretti fell backward, his chair tipping over, his gold wolf ring clattering against the concrete floor as his body went limp.
Roman stood over him for a long moment, his chest heaving, his weapon still raised. The silence of the warehouse returned, save for the steady, rhythmic dripping of water from the ceiling.
May you like
He reached down and picked up the gold ring.
He walked out of the warehouse, his boots sinking into the mud as he climbed back into the SUV. He didn't look back at the dead men. He had a daughter to go home to.
