Chapter 4 - The Viper in the Council
Midnight at Pier 14 was a cathedral of rust and black water.
The Chicago river smelled of dead fish, industrial runoff, and wet coal. Giant gantry cranes loomed overhead like prehistoric skeletons against the starless sky, their cables groaning in the midnight wind.
Vincent’s car stopped fifty yards short of the loading platform. He didn't wait for Tony to open the door; he stepped out alone into the damp chill, his heavy wool coat buttoned to the chin, his silver-knobbed cane striking the concrete with a rhythmic, measured tap.
Waiting for him beneath the yellow glow of a sodium vapor light was Julian Rossi.
Rossi was a younger man—forty-five, sharp-suited in Italian wool that looked ridiculous against the backdrop of rotting timber and oil slicks. He stood with his hands tucked into his pockets, flanked by four armed enforcers holding grease-stained submachine guns. Behind Rossi idling in the shadows was a black flatbed truck with its headlights off.
“Vincent,” Rossi called out, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the water lapping against the pilings. “I’m surprised you came. At your age, I figured you’d be sleeping in an armchair with a blanket over your knees.”
Vincent stopped ten paces away. His face was unreadable in the harsh light. “You talk too much, Julian. It’s a young man’s habit. Usually gets them buried before they see fifty.”
Rossi’s smile didn't reach his eyes. “Times change, old man. You’ve grown soft. Taking in strays from the South Side? Running a charity ward at St. Jude’s? The commission is laughing behind your back. They think the great Vincent Torino has turned into an old soft-hearted grandfather.”
“Let them laugh,” Vincent said calmly. “Laughter keeps them from noticing the knife at their ribs.”
“You think you can hold the whole city forever?” Rossi stepped forward, his tone turning venomous. “The Red Serpents are the future. We don't negotiate with widows; we tax them. We don't ask for permission; we take.”
“You took twenty thousand dollars from a flower shop that barely makes rent,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a lethal register. “And you sent men to beat a woman in front of her child. That isn't the future, Julian. That’s just being a coward with a badge.”
Rossi’s face flushed dark. He gestured sharply to his men. “Kill him. Leave him in the river.”
The four enforcers raised their weapons simultaneously—
Crack!
A single, echoing gunshot split the night air from the shadows of a crane gantry sixty feet above.
The man on the left dropped his submachine gun with a cry, clutching his shattered wrist as blood spurted onto the dock.
Before Rossi could even turn around, the darkness behind him erupted. Tony and six of Vincent’s elite enforcers stepped out from the shadows of the shipping containers, their weapons leveled with absolute, terrifying precision.
“You brought backup?” Rossi spat, his voice cracking with sudden panic as he realized he had walked into an ambush.
“You invited me to a negotiation,” Vincent said, taking a slow step forward. “In my world, negotiations are conducted with full transparency.”
Rossi backed up against a stack of wooden crates, his hand darting inside his coat for a hidden piece—
Vincent raised his cane and swept it forward with vicious speed, catching Rossi across the wrist with the heavy lead-weighted handle. Rossi shrieked, his pistol clattering across the concrete and sliding over the edge into the dark water below.
Vincent grabbed Rossi by the lapels of his expensive Italian suit, hauling him off his feet until the younger man’s toes barely brushed the ground.
“Listen to me very carefully, Julian,” Vincent whispered, his face inches from the other mobster's nose. “You want a war? I’ll give you a war that will make the old days look like a Sunday picnic. I will strip your territories, I will burn your warehouses to ash, and I will leave you so deep in the ground your grandchildren won't remember your name.”
“You... you can’t—”
“Try me,” Vincent hissed. He let go abruptly, sending Rossi crashing down onto his knees in the dirt.
Vincent straightened his coat, looking down at the coughing, broken enforcer with absolute contempt.
“Tell your men the South Side is off limits. Tell them Elena Martinez doesn't exist. If I see so much as a shadow of a Red Serpent within three blocks of her shop again, I won't come to the docks to talk.”
He turned his back on Rossi and began walking slowly toward his car.
“Tony,” Vincent called out without looking back.
May you like
“Boss?”
“Clean up this garbage. And make sure the message is delivered to the rest of the commission before breakfast.”
