Chapter 8 - The Siege of the Docklands
The abandoned shipping warehouse at Pier 44 was Dante Russo’s primary stronghold—a rotting cathedral of rusted corrugated iron, stacked shipping containers, and shadowed catwalks overlooking the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan.
When Victor’s black SUVs punched through the perimeter chain-link fence, the element of surprise lasted all of three seconds.
Gunfire erupted from the upper gantry. Bullets sparked violently against the concrete floor as Victor and his elite enforcers poured out of the vehicles, returning suppressive fire with terrifying discipline.
Victor moved through the crossfire like a ghost, his suppressed pistol spitting silent death into the shadows. He didn't shout. He didn't hesitate. Every step was calculated, driven by a cold, singular focus that terrified even his own men.
He kicked open the heavy metal door of Russo’s private office on the second-level mezzanine.
Dante Russo sat behind a scarred wooden desk, holding a heavy revolver, his face slick with sweat.
“You’re a dead man, Rinaldi,” Russo snarled, raising the gun.
Victor didn't even slow down. He fired once—clean, precise, shattering Russo’s wrist and sending the revolver clattering across the floor.
Russo screamed, clutching his bloody hand as Victor closed the distance in two strides, grabbing him by the collar of his expensive cream suit and slamming him against the brick wall.
“You broke the code, Dante,” Victor whispered, his voice dangerously low. “You threatened my home. You threatened a child.”
“Victor—wait—!” Russo gasped, his eyes wide with mortal terror.
“There is no wait,” Victor said coldly.
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He didn't kill him. Death was too easy, too quick for a man like Russo. Instead, Victor hauled him toward the open window overlooking the freezing lake, dropped him onto the metal grate, and signaled down to Viktor in the courtyard below.
“Put him on a freighter bound for the Arctic circle,” Victor commanded into his radio. “And make sure his passport is permanently revoked.”
