Chapter 4 - The Battle of Rosemont
The snow fell heavy and thick over the abandoned industrial park in Rosemont, muffling the sound of idling engines and heavy boots on asphalt.
Dominic Genovese’s safehouse was a reinforced two-story concrete warehouse, surrounded by a high chain-link fence and armed sentries. Inside, thirty heavily armed men were making preparations for an assault on my Oak Brook estate, checking magazines, strapping on tactical vests, and drinking cheap whiskey.
Dominic himself sat upstairs in a makeshift office, his feet kicked up on a desk, twirling a gold pocket watch. Beside him, Richard Mercer was sweating profusely, pacing back and forth across the concrete floor.
"Are you sure about this, Dominic?" Mercer whimpered, wringing his hands. "Vance isn't just some local thug. He controls the entire city! If we attack his estate, the whole Midwest will explode!"
"Shut up, Mercer," Dominic sneered, tossing his gold watch into the air and catching it. "Vance is an old man who has gone soft. He's hiding a widow and four little brats in his mansion because he thinks he's a savior. He doesn't have the stomach for a real war with New York."
CRASH.
The sound of shattering glass and twisting steel echoed from the lower floor, followed instantly by the deafening roar of automatic gunfire.
Dominic jumped up from his chair, pulling his custom silver pistol from his belt. "What the hell was that?!"
Before Mercer could answer, the steel door of the office blew inward off its hinges, driven by a breaching charge. The shockwave knocked both men off their feet, filling the air with concrete dust and acrid smoke.
Through the haze walked three figures in full black tactical gear. In the lead was Michael Vance, carrying a heavy shotgun, his face completely cold, devoid of any human warmth. Behind him came Victor and ten elite Vanguard operators, moving with terrifying, silent efficiency as they cleared the building floor by floor.
The thirty men Dominic had brought from New York didn't even have time to organize a defense. They were disarmed, pinned to the floor, and subdued in less than four minutes.
I walked into the dusty office, stepping over the crumpled steel door, and stood over Dominic Genovese as he scrambled backward against the wall, clutching his silver gun with trembling hands.
"Point that at me," I said softly, "and your father will be picking your fingers out of Lake Michigan."
Dominic looked into my eyes, saw the absolute, uncompromising death waiting inside them, and dropped the pistol onto the floor with a clatter.
Beside him, Mercer was sobbing, curled into a ball beneath a wooden desk.
"You... you can't touch me!" Dominic stammered, trying to muster his family's reputation like a shield. "I am a Genovese! My father is the Don of New York! If you spill my blood, every boss on the East Coast will come to Chicago to hunt you down!"
I didn't answer him. Instead, I pulled a satellite phone from my vest pocket, dialed a international number, and tossed it into Dominic's lap.
"It's ringing," I said. "Answer it."
Dominic picked up the phone with trembling hands and pressed it to his ear. "H-Hello?"
"Dominic, you absolute fool!" the gravelly, ancient voice of Don Vito Genovese roared through the speaker, so loud that even I could hear it standing five feet away. "What have you done?!"
"Dad!" Dominic whimpered. "I'm in Chicago! Vance breached our compound—"
"Shut your mouth!" the old Don screamed. "Michael Vance called me twenty minutes ago! He sent me files proving you were planning an unsanctioned war using family funds! You dragged my family into a conflict over a dead man's docks without my permission!"
"Dad, the docks are worth hundreds of millions—"
"I don't care if they are worth billions!" Don Vito barked. "Michael Vance saved my life in Berlin twenty years ago during the syndicate wars! I gave him my word that New York would never cross the Indiana border! You have humiliated me, boy!"
Dominic's face went completely white. He looked up at me in terror, realizing that the man standing over him wasn't just a local boss—he was a legend respected even by the highest rulers of the underworld.
"Mr. Vance..." Don Vito's voice came through the speaker again, softer this time, laced with deep respect. "My son is an idiot. Take the dock deeds. Take Mercer's firm. Do whatever you want with Mercer. Just send my boy back to New York on the first flight tomorrow morning. He will never step foot in Illinois again."
"He leaves tonight, Vito," I said calmly, looking down at Dominic. "On a cargo plane. In a crate."
"Understood," Don Vito replied without hesitation. "Thank you for sparing his life, old friend."
The line went dead.
I looked over at Mercer, who was shivering under the desk.
"Victor," I commanded. "Take Mr. Mercer to the docks. Show him the water he was so eager to control. Let him think about his choices while he serves twenty years in federal prison for extortion and fraud."
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As Victor dragged Mercer out of the room, crying and screaming for mercy, I stood alone in the dusty office, watching the snow fall outside the shattered window.
The war was over before it even began. But as I turned to leave, my thoughts were already back at the estate—with four little girls and a brave woman waiting for my return.
