Chapter 4 - The Port of Chicago
The rain came down in sheets on Friday night, turning the asphalt of the South Side shipping yards into a mirror of black ice and neon reflections from the giant container cranes overhead.
The convoy of three matte-black Escalades rolled past the outer security gate of Pier 44 without slowing down. The guards in the gatehouse didn't even raise their rifles; they knew the plates, or they knew better than to ask.
In the back of the lead vehicle, I sat dressed in black tactical gear, my hair pulled back into a tight braid, checking the magazine of a Sig Sauer pistol Volkov had taught me how to strip and reassemble over the past forty-eight hours. My hands didn't shake. The grief that had paralyzed me for three months had transformed into something cold, precise, and absolute.
Volkov sat beside me, adjusting the silencer on his own weapon, his dark eyes never leaving my face.
— If things go sideways, Marcus Vance is mine, I said quietly.
— He’s yours, Volkov agreed without hesitation.
The SUVs halted in the shadows behind Warehouse B, a massive corrugated steel structure where the hum of industrial generators drowned out the sound of the rain.
We moved out in absolute silence. Volkov’s men swept the perimeter like ghosts, neutralizing the external camera feeds and silencing the two guards by the loading dock before they even had time to draw breath.
We slipped through the side personnel door into the cavernous interior of the warehouse.
Above us, catwalks crisscrossed the darkness, overlooking rows of stacked shipping containers filled with contraband pharmaceuticals. Below, in the center of the floor, a dozen men in expensive suits stood around a folding table littered with manifests and heavy canvas bags of cash.
At the head of the table stood Marcus Vance—older than I remembered from the hospital fundraisers in London, his silver hair neatly combed, laughing heartily at something one of his associates had said.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my vision tunnel-focused with crystal clarity.
— Now, Volkov whispered softly beside me.
We stepped out of the shadows into the harsh halogen light of the warehouse floor.
— Marcus, a voice boomed across the cavernous space—deep, calm, and terrifyingly familiar.
Marcus spun around, his smile dying instantly as his eyes landed on Matteo Volkov. Behind Volkov, three of his elite enforcers cut off the rear exits, their weapons raised.
— Volkov, Marcus stammered, his face draining of color as he scrambled for his breast pocket. What the hell is this? This is neutral territory—
— It was neutral territory, Volkov corrected smoothly, stepping aside to let me walk into the halo of light.
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks. His hand froze hovering over his jacket. His eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated horror as he looked at my face, recognizing the midwife from St. Catherine's Hospital—the ghost of a past he thought he had buried at the bottom of the Thames.
— Elena... Elena Rossi? Marcus choked out, stumbling backward against the folding table. That's impossible. Your car went off the bridge. You were supposed to be—
— In London? Buried with my family? I asked, my voice cutting through the noise of the rain like a razor blade.
I raised the Sig Sauer, my arms locked straight, my breathing slow and controlled.
— You cut the brakes on my husband’s car, Marcus. You killed my four-year-old boys because Luca wouldn't sign your distribution manifests.
— I was following protocol! Marcus screamed, panic breaking his voice as he raised his hands. It was business! Just business!
— No, Marcus, I whispered, pulling the trigger.
The shot echoed off the corrugated steel walls like a thunderclap.
Marcus Vance crumpled to the concrete floor, his blood pooling dark and fast against the gray industrial tile.
The remaining men at the table dropped their weapons instantly, raising their hands above their heads, falling to their knees without a single word of protest.
May you like
Volkov stepped up beside me, placing a heavy, warm hand on the small of my back, guiding me away from the body as his men secured the room.
As we walked back out into the cool, cleansing Chicago rain, the weight that had crushed my chest for three long months finally, completely vanished.
