Chapter 6 - The West Side Warehouse
The abandoned postal sorting facility on the west side of Chicago smelled of damp concrete, rust, and old paper.
My convoy of three black SUVs pulled up silently into the unlit loading bay at 9:00 PM. The rain was coming down in sheets, drumming a steady, relentless beat against the corrugated metal roof.
Luca and four of my most trusted enforcers moved in first, clearing the perimeter with practiced silence.
I walked behind them, my leather shoes splashing in the puddles, my hand resting comfortably near the Kimber 1911 in my shoulder holster.
We found Richard Vance on the second floor of the facility, sitting at a folding card table lit by a single flickering desk lamp. He was burning documents in a metal trash can when the heavy steel door behind him groaned open.
"Evelyn, I told you not to come here—" Richard started, not bothering to turn around, assuming it was his co-conspirator.
He stopped mid-sentence when he heard the heavy, synchronized click of several firearms sliding safety catches off.
Richard spun around in his chair, his face losing all color as he stared down the barrel of Luca’s pistol, then looked up to see me walking slowly out of the shadows.
"Adrien Moretti," Richard whispered, his voice trembling violently. "I—I can explain. Whatever Evelyn told you—"
"Evelyn didn't have to say much," I interrupted, walking up to the card table and leaning down until our faces were inches apart. "She gave me your name, your P.O. box, and every single routing number you used to rob my estate."
Richard swallowed hard, his throat working frantically. "It was just business, Moretti. Petty cash. You’re a billionaire; a few thousand dollars from your domestic budget is nothing to you—"
"You didn't just steal money, Richard," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "You helped institutionalize cruelty in my home. You helped deny a disabled four-year-old child a basic accessibility request, and you watched while she got hurt day after day."
Richard’s eyes darted toward the exit, calculating his odds, knowing full well the answer was zero.
"What do you want?" he choked out. "Money? I can pay it back—double, triple—"
"I don't want your money," I said, straightening up and gesturing to Luca. "I want your silence, your freedom, and your absence from this city permanently."
May you like
Before Richard could scream or beg, Luca stepped forward, slipping a heavy pair of tactical zip-ties around his wrists and dragging him out of the chair.
"Put him on a cargo flight to South America tonight," I ordered, turning my back on the shivering man. "Make sure he lands somewhere without an extradition treaty. If he ever sets foot in Illinois again, feed him to the river."
