Chapter 2 - The Meatpacking Vault
The storm outside had turned into a torrential downpour by the time Dr. Mercer arrived.
The doctor worked quickly, hanging two bags of saline and glucose from an exposed pipe on the ceiling, jamming a needle into the mother's arm. Her name was Sarah Miller, according to the expired driver's license left behind in an empty closet. Within twenty minutes, her breathing evened out, the gray pallor of her skin giving way to a faint, fragile flush of warmth.
"She was hours away from organ failure, Rocco," Mercer whispered, wiping sweat from his forehead as he packed his bag. "Severe malnutrition, hypothermia, acute distress. I've got my private transport crew bringing her to St. Jude’s private ward under my personal name. She’ll be safe."
"Keep four armed guards outside her door," I told him. "Nobody enters without my personal passphrase."
"Understood."
I walked back out to the SUV. Emma was sitting in the plush leather backseat, wrapped in Luca’s heavy wool coat, clutching a warm thermos of broth Luca had grabbed from a late-night diner down the street. Her rusty pink bike was strapped securely into the rear cargo space.
I slid into the seat beside her. The little girl looked small against the vast, dark leather interior of the armored vehicle.
"Emma," I said softly. "The man with the loud ring... what did it look like?"
Emma took a small sip of the broth, her hands still shaking slightly. "It was gold... with a big green eye on it. He wore it on his thumb. He kept hitting the table with it when he screamed at Mommy."
Luca turned around from the front passenger seat, his face grim. "Sal’s younger brother, Nicky Marcone. He wears a heavy jade signet ring on his right thumb. He runs the illegal slaughterhouse operation down on 31st Street."
"Nicky," I murmured, staring out the rain-slicked window as the city lights blurred past. "The younger brother who likes to pretend he’s a king because his older brother holds a Moretti token."
"Rocco," Luca warned quietly. "Sal has forty armed guys at that meatpacking plant. It’s his primary storehouse for stolen goods and contraband. If we walk in there without calling up the main family soldiers first, it could start a street war."
"Sal Marcone started a war the moment he put my name on that black card," I said, my voice dropping an octave into a cold, terrifying register. "Drive to 31st Street."
The meatpacking plant was an old brick monolith sitting on the edge of the Chicago River. Heavy rusted gates blocked the main entrance, guarded by two men in thick leather jackets standing under an awning, smoking cigarettes.
Rain drummed against the roof of the SUV as we idling across the street.
"Stay in the car with Luca, Emma," I said, reaching into the hidden lockbox beneath my seat and pulling out my custom heavy-caliber silver pistol.
Emma grabbed the edge of my sleeve with her tiny, bruised fingers. "Sir... are you going to get Leo back?"
I stopped, looking into those tired, seven-year-old eyes.
"I give you my word, Emma," I said gently. "Your brother comes home tonight."
I stepped out into the pouring rain, shutting the heavy door behind me.
I didn't try to hide. I walked straight up the middle of the driveway, my long coat blowing in the cold wind.
"Hey! The hell do you think you're—" one of the guards started, reaching for his waist.
I didn't slow down. I raised the silver pistol and fired twice through the leather jacket of the first guard before he could clear his holster. The heavy rounds dropped him instantly into the muddy gravel. The second guard gasped, reaching for his radio, but I caught him by the throat, driving his skull back against the iron gate with a sickening CRACK.
He slumped to the pavement, unconscious.
I pushed the iron gate open and stepped into the dim, blood-scented interior of the slaughterhouse.
The air was thick with the metallic smell of hanging beef carcases and damp concrete. Overhead, fluorescent lights flickered violently. At the far end of the long hall, four men were sitting around a wooden table, drinking cards and counting stacks of rubber-banded cash.
Among them was Nicky Marcone, wearing a silk shirt, a large gold-and-jade signet ring gleaming on his right thumb under the stark overhead bulbs.
Stacked against the concrete walls behind them were piles of stolen household items: micro-waves, coats, flat-screen televisions, baby clothes, and a painted wooden crib.
"What the hell?" one of the men shouted, standing up as he heard my boots echoing off the concrete. "Who let this guy—"
He froze.
Nicky Marcone turned, his drink stopping half-way to his mouth. The color drained from his face until he looked as pale as the hanging beef suspended from the meat hooks above him.
"R-Rocco?" Nicky stammered, dropping his glass. It shattered on the wet floor. "Don Moretti... what... what are you doing here?"
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I kept walking, my footsteps slow, rhythmic, unstoppable.
"I came to buy a baby crib, Nicky," I said softly.
