Chapter 8 - The Fire at the Docks
The explosion didn't come from our car.
It erupted two hundred yards behind us, right at the central control tower of the drawbridge. A blinding flash of orange fire billowed into the rainy night sky, followed by a shockwave that rattled the windows of our SUV and sent sheets of white-hot debris raining down into the dark waters of the Chicago River.
Vincent hadn't rigged our vehicle to blow. He had rigged the bridge escape route, sealing off the commission’s primary enforcement squad behind a wall of burning steel and collapsed concrete.
In the side-view mirror, I watched Vincent’s van veer sharply toward the industrial access road, speeding away into the foggy expanse of the shipping yards, drawing whatever remaining hunters were left in the city straight toward him.
He was trading his life to buy us twenty minutes.
“Keep driving, Marcus,” I said, my voice thick, staring at the empty stretch of road ahead of us.
The SUV roared off the bridge and plunged deep into the labyrinth of shipping containers and rusted warehouses lining the south docks—the birthplace of the Moretti empire, and where this entire bloody story had started thirty years ago.
We pulled up beside a weathered, nondescript brick warehouse bearing the faded logo of a long-bankrupt import company. The windows were dark, but a single amber bulb flickered above the heavy loading dock doors.
Marcus cut the engine. The sudden silence inside the cabin was deafening, broken only by the steady patter of rain on the roof and the soft, rhythmic ticking of my grandfather’s pocket watch.
“Is this the end?” little Mia asked quietly from the back seat, her dark eyes looking up at Emily with a maturity that felt entirely wrong for a ten-year-old.
Emily wrapped her arms around the girl, pulling her close. “No, sweetheart,” Emily whispered, kissing the top of her head. “This is where we finally stop running.”
Antonio opened his door and swung his legs out onto the wet asphalt, leaning heavily on his ebony cane. I stepped out behind him, pulling the heavy leather ledger from my coat and clutching it in my hand.
“Are you ready to finish this, son?” my father asked, his voice steady as he looked up at me.
“I’m ready to end it,” I replied, my eyes fixed on the heavy iron doors of the warehouse. “Once and for all.”
We walked up the concrete loading ramp together—father, son, daughter, and the remnants of a shattered family trying to piece itself back together from the wreckage of lies.
Marcus stayed by the SUV, his weapon drawn, securing the perimeter against any stragglers foolish enough to follow us into the docks.
I reached out and pushed the heavy iron door open. It swung inward with a low, agonizing groan, revealing a vast, dimly lit interior filled with rows of old crates, hanging work lights, and a single wooden table sitting dead center in the room.
Sitting at that table, waiting for us with a glass of scotch in his hand and an open file folder spread out before him, was the last man I ever expected to see.
The man who had signed the commission’s orders.
The man who had financed the hit on my mother twelve years ago.
My uncle, Salvatore Moretti—the man who was supposed to have died in federal custody a decade ago.
May you like
Salvatore looked up, took a slow sip of his drink, and smiled warmly.
“Welcome home, nephew,” Salvatore said, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. “I’ve been waiting a long time to see which version of your father you turned out to be.”
