Chapter 5 - BLOOD ON THE RIVER
The rain had turned into a torrential downpour, turning the industrial docks along the Calumet River into a slick, blackened graveyard of shipping containers and rusted cranes.
Lorenzo had mobilized forty heavily armed loyalists in six unmarked tactical vans. The strike was immediate, brutal, and calculated. If the Petrov syndicate and the Vane family thought they could seize the Moretti logistics hubs while the city was distracted by the restaurant bombing, they had severely underestimated Lorenzo’s speed.
Inside the command van parked two hundred yards away, Evelyn sat next to Dante, watching drone surveillance feeds on multiple monitors. Lorenzo had refused to leave her behind at The Armory—not because he didn't trust his guards, but because he didn't trust anyone else in the city to keep her breathing.
"Thermal scans show twenty bogeys inside Warehouse Nine," Dante reported, adjusting the frequency. "They’re loading cargo crates into unmarked flatbeds. That’s our weapons cache from the docks."
Lorenzo stood behind them, donning a lightweight tactical vest over his black shirt. He checked the action on an MPX submachine gun with effortless familiarity.
"Evelyn," Lorenzo called out softly.
She looked up, her dark hair pulled back, her face pale under the monitors' blue glow. "Yes?"
"Look at the entry points. If you were setting an ambush for my strike team, where would you place the choke point?"
Evelyn hesitated, her throat tight. "I'm not a soldier, Mr. Moretti."
"You don't need to be a soldier to understand greed and fear," Lorenzo said, stepping closer, his voice commanding yet surprisingly intimate. "Your father lost games because he looked at the cards instead of the players. You look at the players. Where are they waiting?"
Evelyn swallowed, forcing her mind past the terror and focusing on the screen. She studied the layout of Warehouse Nine.
"There," she said, pointing a slender finger at the elevated catwalks overlooking the loading bay doors. "They left the main rolling door wide open to bait you inside. But those overhead floodlights aren't connected to the primary grid; they're wired to external batteries. If your team breaches through the front, they’ll cut the lights, blind your men with flashbangs from above, and funnel you between the container rows."
Lorenzo looked at the thermal feed, analyzing the wiring she had pointed out. A slow, dangerous smile crept across his lips.
"Marco," Lorenzo spoke into his comm-link. "Change of plans. Blow the southern brick wall with breaching charges. Cut the auxiliary generators first. We take the catwalks from the roof down."
"Copy that, Boss," Marco's gruff voice answered through the earpiece.
Two minutes later, the night exploded into violence.
A muffled THUMP shook the ground as high-explosive charges tore through the rear brick masonry of Warehouse Nine. The external floodlights died instantly. Through the night-vision drone feeds, Evelyn watched in morbid fascination as Moretti’s strike teams dropped from the skylights onto the catwalks, wiping out the Petrov syndicate's snipers before they even realized the perimeter had been compromised.
Gunfire rattled through the rain like distant thunder. Muzzle flashes lit up the warehouse windows in violent, rhythmic strobes.
"Direct hit," Dante breathed, tracking the heat signatures fading to black on the screen. "The loading bay is ours. They're retreating toward the water."
Lorenzo tapped Evelyn’s shoulder. "Stay in the van."
Before she could protest, he racked his weapon and stepped out into the pouring rain, accompanied by four operators.
Evelyn watched through the windshield as Lorenzo moved through the dark with terrifying efficiency. He didn't duck; he didn't panic. He commanded the battlefield like an emperor surveying a minor border dispute.
Five minutes later, the shooting stopped.
The heavy metal doors of the warehouse rolled up with a grinding screech. Two Moretti soldiers dragged a man out into the mud by his collar, tossing him into the blinding beam of the van’s headlights.
It was Julian Vane—Celeste’s father.
The billionaire real estate mogul was covered in soot, his tailored bespoke suit torn to shreds, his face bruised and bleeding. He was sobbing, clutching a shattered wrist.
Lorenzo walked behind him, lowering his weapon, his expression as unreadable as stone.
"Julian," Lorenzo said, his voice carrying clearly over the rain. "Where is your daughter?"
"I don't know! I swear to God, Lorenzo, I don't know!" Julian screamed, trembling violently on his knees. "Nikolai Petrov took her! She was the collateral! The Russians funded the hit on the restaurant, but they wanted the entire port network! They took her to the old rail terminal in Cicero!"
Cicero.
Inside the van, Evelyn’s heart stopped.
The old rail terminal was three blocks from her apartment. It was the same railyard where her father had run his underground games before he vanished.
Lorenzo looked toward the van, his dark eyes piercing through the rain-streaked windshield directly into Evelyn's soul. He walked back to the vehicle, opening the door, letting the cool, wet air flood the cabin.
"Cicero, Evelyn," Lorenzo said quietly. "It seems all roads lead back to your backyard."
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"Nikolai Petrov is a butcher," Evelyn whispered, her voice trembling. "If he’s at the railyard, he’s not just holding Celeste. He’s digging up something my father left behind."
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