Chapter 3 - The Broken Threshold
The rain turned into freezing sleet by 9:00 PM.
The street in Cicero was a wasteland of rusted cars, broken streetlights, and decaying brick tenement buildings. Water pooled in the potholes, reflecting the flickering neon sign of a nearby dive bar.
My black Lincoln pulled up to the curb outside Sofia’s building, flanked by two blacked-out Suburbans carrying six of my most trusted men.
I stepped out onto the wet asphalt, buttoning my heavy coat, my leather-gloved hand resting inside my pocket over the grip of my customized Kimber .45 pistol. Frank stepped up beside me, holding a large tactical flashlight, his eyes scanning the dark alleyways.
"Building's quiet, Boss," Frank said softly. "Third floor, apartment 3B."
We walked up the crumbling concrete steps. The air inside the stairwell smelled of damp mold, old cooking grease, and cheap gin. Every step squeaked beneath our weight.
When we reached the third floor, I paused outside the door marked 3B.
The door was unlocked. It hung open by an inch, revealing a sliver of darkness inside.
Frank instantly reached for his holster, stepping in front of me, but I pushed his arm aside. I kicked the wooden door open, stepping fluidly into the tiny living room with my weapon raised.
The apartment was ransacked.
The tiny velvet sofa had been slashed open with a blade, stuffing pouring onto the floor like dirty snow. Drawers were pulled out and emptied. Cheap ceramic dishes lay shattered across the kitchen linoleum.
And on the small wooden table near the window—the table where three-year-old Emma had cut the last loaf of bread into two uneven pieces— sat a black leather folder.
"Clear!" Frank shouted as two guards swept the bedroom and bathroom. "Nobody here, Boss."
I walked slowly over to the table. The black leather folder had a golden emblem stamped on the cover: City of Chicago - Department of Forensic Pathology.
I opened it.
Inside were dusty, twelve-year-old crime scene photographs and autopsy reports from the night my car blew up on Michigan Avenue.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a sledgehammer. These were confidential police records that had vanished from the precinct vault three weeks after the attack.
I flipped through the pages until I reached the final document—a hand-written statement signed by Antonio Romano three days before he died in the hospital.
I read the faded black ink:
"I am writing this because I know Dominic Marcone’s men are watching my apartment. On the night of the explosion, before the ambulance arrived, I reached into Mr. Moretti's burning vehicle. I found the detonator casing wedged under the rear axle. It wasn't a Marcone pipe bomb. The signature on the wiring... it belonged to the Moretti family's private armorer. The bomb wasn't built by the enemy. It was planted by someone inside Marco Moretti’s inner circle."
My blood turned to pure ice.
A loud, sudden metallic CLANG echoed from the stairwell outside.
"Boss! We got company!" Frank roared, drawing his weapon as heavy footsteps began thundering up the stairs.
The heavy wooden front door of the apartment was blown inward by a shotgun blast. Wood splinters flew through the air like shrapnel.
Four men wearing dark tactical jackets and ski masks burst into the room, their weapons raised.
"Moretti!" a voice shouted from the hallway outside. "Dominic said you'd come for the broad's trash! Leave the folder and maybe you walk out of here alive!"
I didn't answer.
The grief that had frozen my soul for three years instantly burned away, replaced by a white-hot, lethal rage. The men who killed my wife and daughter weren't just my enemies from the South Side. The man who ordered that bomb was sitting in my own council.
"Kill them all," I said softly.
Before the lead gunman could raise his shotgun, I drew my Kimber .45 and fired three shots in rapid succession.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The heavy rounds tore through the lead shooter’s chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him back into the corridor. Frank and my guards opened fire instantly, the narrow apartment echoing with deafening gunshots, muzzle flashes illuminating the ruined room like strobe lights.
The gunfight lasted less than twenty seconds.
When the smoke cleared, four bodies lay motionless on the blood-stained linoleum.
I walked calmly across the room, stepping over the fallen men, my gun held low at my side. I reached down, picked up the black leather folder from the table, and tucked it inside my coat.
May you like
I stepped out into the hallway, looking down at the scarred face of one of the wounded attackers who was squirming on the floor, holding his shattered shoulder.
"Tell Dominic Marcone," I rasped, leaning down until my face was inches from his, "that I have the folder. And tell him I am coming to tear his world down brick by brick."
