Chapter 5 - Blood on the River
The old slaughterhouse on Archer Avenue was a rotting monument to Chicago’s industrial past—a sprawling complex of corrugated iron, rusted cranes, and frozen concrete overlooking the dark, oily water of the Chicago River.
Our convoy of three matte-black SUVs cut their headlights a block away, rolling silently into the unpaved yard.
Inside the lead vehicle, I sat in the passenger seat next to Adrian. The heavy weight of a bulletproof vest pressed against my chest, and a Glock eighteen sat awkwardly in a holster strapped to my thigh—a weapon Adrian had insisted I strap on after a five-minute crash course in the Maybach.
“Stay behind me,” Adrian said for the fourth time in ten minutes, his hand resting on the handbrake. “If things go sideways, you take the keys, put the SUV in reverse, and you don't stop driving until you reach my mother’s estate.”
“I’m not leaving you here to get shot by a psycho with a Napoleon complex,” I snapped, chambering a round into my Glock with a sharp, clumsy motion that made one of the enforcers in the back seat wince.
Adrian looked over at me, a strange, breathless laugh escaping his lips. “God help me, Nora, you’re going to be the death of me.”
“Focus on Moretti, worry about my health later,” I muttered, gripping the door handle.
The vehicle doors swung open simultaneously.
Ten armed men poured out into the freezing night air, forming a tight perimeter around Adrian and me as we marched toward the main loading bay of the slaughterhouse. The wind coming off the river cut through my jacket like a razor blade, smelling of dead fish, iron, and rotting wood.
Inside the cavernous loading bay, a single overhead halogen bulb cast a harsh, sickly yellow glow over the concrete floor.
Waiting for us stood Salvatore Moretti—a thickset, greasy-haired brute in a tailored white coat, flanked by half a dozen heavily armed thugs holding submachine guns.
“Adrian!” Moretti bellowed, spreading his arms wide with theatrical contempt. “Look at you! Bringing your little nurse to a gunfight! What’s the matter, old wolf? Getting soft in your old age?”
Adrian didn't stop walking until he was ten feet away from Moretti. I stood right beside his right shoulder, keeping my weapon hidden beneath my coat but my hand firmly on the grip.
“You crossed a line tonight, Salvatore,” Adrian said, his voice terrifyingly calm, cutting through the cavernous echo of the room. “You hit my docks. You bled my men. And you sent a message to my home.”
Moretti sneered, spitting onto the concrete. “The North Side belongs to the Outfit, Adrian! Your mother’s little charity projects and your corporate monopolies are done! Hand over the shipping routes by midnight, or the girl gets a bullet in her skull right now.”
At Moretti’s signal, two of his thugs stepped forward, dragging a bound figure between them.
My breath caught in my throat. It wasn't a stranger. It was Miller—the enforcer I had just patched up an hour ago. They must have ambushed the transport vehicle on its way to the safehouse.
“You want your dog back?” Moretti grinned, pulling a pistol from his belt and pressing it directly against the back of Miller’s head. “Sign the papers!”
Adrian looked at Miller, then at Moretti.
For a single second, the world seemed to stop spinning.
Then Adrian sighed—a soft, tired sound of a man who was deeply inconvenienced by idiots.
“Salvatore,” Adrian said smoothly. “Did you really think I came here to negotiate?”
Moretti frowned, his eyes darting wildly. “What are you talking about—?”
“You forgot the cardinal rule of Chicago real estate,” Adrian whispered.
He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
CRASH.
Above us, the rusted glass skylights of the slaughterhouse shattered into a million glittering shards.
Before Moretti’s men could even look up, three of Adrian’s elite snipers dropped through the openings on heavy rappelling ropes, landing squarely behind Moretti’s crew with assault rifles raised. Simultaneously, the steel bay doors behind Moretti blew outward in a shower of sparks and smoke as two armored SUVs smashed through the corrugated metal.
Chaos erupted in a fraction of a second.
Gunfire deafened the room, filling the air with the sharp, acrid stench of cordite and burning rubber. Moretti’s men scrambled, but they were outflanked, outgunned, and entirely outmatched.
Moretti screamed in panic, shoving Miller aside and raising his pistol toward Adrian.
“Die, you bastard—!”
My instincts, honed by years of split-second emergency responses, took over entirely. I didn't think about the badge, the mob, or the consequences. I drew my Glock from my thigh holster, raised it with both hands, and squeezed the trigger.
The recoil slammed into my shoulder.
The bullet struck Moretti squarely in his right shoulder, spinning him around and knocking his pistol clattering across the concrete.
Before he could recover, Adrian was on him.
In two long strides, Adrian closed the distance, grabbed Moretti by the lapels of his white coat, and slammed him against a concrete pillar with a sickening crunch.
“The meeting is adjourned, Salvatore,” Adrian whispered, his face inches from Moretti’s terrified eyes.
One swift, brutal sweep of Adrian’s fist knocked Moretti unconscious, sending him slumping to the floor like a sack of wet cement.
Silence descended on the slaughterhouse, broken only by the crackle of a small electrical fire near the door and the heavy, ragged breathing of the men around us.
I stood frozen, holding the smoking gun in my shaking hands, staring down at the bullet casing rolling across the floor.
Adrian turned around, walking slowly through the smoke toward me. His eyes were dark, burning with an intensity that made my knees feel weak.
May you like
He stopped right in front of me, reached out, and gently took the gun from my trembling fingers, sliding it back into my holster.
“I told you,” Adrian murmured, his voice thick with unexpressed emotion, “you belong under my protection, Nora. But it looks like you’re entirely capable of protecting me instead.”
