Chapter 4 - The Legal and Lethal Trap
The Damen Avenue logistics terminal was a vast, echoing cavern of corrugated steel and rusted shipping containers, situated along a dirty canal of the Chicago River. The air inside smelled of diesel, rotting wood, and the cold, metallic tang of stagnant water.
Veronica Hale stood near a stack of wooden pallets, her gray wool coat wrapped tightly around her, her eyes tracking the movement of a black Mercedes that had just pulled into the loading bay.
Silvio Moretti climbed out of the backseat. He was a short, thick-necked man with slicked-back gray hair and eyes that had the dull, greasy quality of a bottom-feeding fish. He was flanked by three men in dark leather jackets, their hands tucked deep into their pockets.
"You have the codes?" Moretti asked, his voice a wet, raspy wheeze.
"I have the primary routing keys," Veronica said, holding up a small, silver flash drive. "But I want my share of the terminal operations, Silvio. Forty percent. Solidified in a maritime trust before we leak the federal indictments to the state’s attorney."
"Of course," Moretti said, his mouth twisting into a grotesque imitation of a smile. "A partnership, Veronica. That’s what we agreed on. You give me the Salvati vault, and I make sure you’re the only lawyer left standing in this city."
He reached out to take the flash drive, but before his fingers could touch the silver metal, the heavy steel doors of the terminal’s office block groaned open.
Drake Salvati walked out onto the elevated concrete catwalk, his hands clasped behind his back, his cashmere coat hanging open. Vince Caruso followed close behind, a heavy shotgun held low at his side.
"You always did have a terrible eye for investments, Veronica," Drake’s voice echoed off the steel rafters, cold and clear as ice.
Veronica flinched, her head snapping up as her face turned a sickly shade of gray. "Drake."
Moretti’s men instantly drew their weapons, their pistols pointing up toward the catwalk. Vince leveled the shotgun, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"Silvio," Drake said, looking down at the mob boss. "You’ve spent ten years trying to take my docks. You’ve sent enforcers, you’ve paid off inspectors, you’ve even tried to bomb my warehouses. And now you’re standing in my terminal, buying stolen data from a lawyer who doesn't even know how to run a shell company without leaving a trail of breadcrumbs."
"She’s got your keys, Drake," Moretti sneered, gesturing toward the flash drive in Veronica’s hand. "With this, I don't need to take your docks. I can buy them from the bankruptcy court for ten cents on the dollar."
"Do you know why I gave her that card, Silvio?" Drake asked, taking a slow step down the iron stairs of the catwalk. "Because I wanted to see if she was smart enough to realize that the keys she’s holding are dummy routing numbers."
Veronica’s eyes went wide. She looked down at the flash drive in her hand as if it had suddenly turned into a scorpion.
"What?" she whispered.
"I’ve known you were talking to Moretti for six months, Veronica," Drake said, stopping on the bottom step. "Every file you accessed on the Salvati servers was logged. Every offshore account you transferred to 'Vigilant Holdings' was a sting operation set up by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation. I didn't freeze the card because I needed you to complete the transactions. By using my card to fund those shell companies, you didn't steal my money, Veronica. You spent your own way into a federal conspiracy charge."
From the shadows of the loading bay, the blue and red lights of unmarked police cruisers suddenly erupted, casting a frantic, strobing glare across the concrete walls. The sound of sirens wailed from the street outside, and within seconds, a dozen federal agents in tactical gear burst through the side doors, their rifles leveled.
"Federal agents! Nobody move! Hands in the air!"
Moretti’s men dropped their weapons, their hands flying up as they realized they were completely surrounded. Moretti himself let out a low, defeated curse, his fingers opening as the flash drive clattered to the dirt.
Veronica fell to her knees, her gray coat soaking up the greasy water on the floor as she looked up at Drake with wide, desperate eyes.
"Drake, please," she begged, her voice cracking. "I can help you. I know how to beat this—"
"You’re a good lawyer, Veronica," Drake said, looking down at her one last time as the agents stepped forward to cuff her. "But you forgot the first rule of the contract: never try to out-negotiate the man who wrote the terms."
He turned back to Vince, his face pale but steady.
"Where is Jasmine?" Drake asked.
May you like
Vince checked his tablet, his face suddenly tightening with a terrible, icy dread.
"She’s not at her apartment, Drake," Vince said. "The GPS on her card just pinged. She’s in Cicero. At the Mendozas’ house."
