Chapter 3 - Blood on the River
Midnight on the Chicago River was a study in shadows and industrial decay.
An abandoned shipping yard near the Pilsen district served as the neutral ground where the remnants of Viktor Vance’s Eastern European syndicate operated their illicit import-export pipeline.
Dominic Rossi stepped out of his black Lincoln Navigator into the freezing drizzle, flanked by Marco and six heavily armed enforcers. The snow was turning to slush beneath their boots as they walked toward the corrugated metal warehouse glowing with harsh fluorescent light from within.
Inside, Viktor Vance—a burly, silver-haired man with cold gray eyes and an old scar running across his throat—sat at a metal table counting stacks of bearer bonds.
The heavy steel doors of the warehouse groaned and slammed open.
Vance didn't even look up from his money. “I told your uncle, Rossi. The South Loop development belongs to my syndicate. You overstepped by seizing Miller’s assets.”
“David Miller is facing twenty years in federal custody,” Dominic’s voice echoed sharply through the cavernous space. “And you are standing in a building that is about to become your tomb.”
Vance finally looked up, a cruel smile spreading across his scarred face. He snapped his fingers, and thirty armed men stepped out from behind the shipping containers, raising submachine guns toward Dominic and his crew.
“You brought six men to an army, Dominic,” Vance laughed darkly. “You let your arrogance cloud your judgment.”
Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice.
“You think I came here to negotiate?” Dominic asked quietly.
Before Vance could answer, the corrugated iron roof overhead exploded inward with a deafening roar.
Cables dropped from the darkness above. Rossi enforcers—rappelling down from the rafters with military precision—landed directly behind Vance’s guards, neutralizing them before they could even pull their triggers.
At the same time, the side loading bays kicked open, and additional tactical units flooded the warehouse from every angle.
Chaos erupted. Gunfire shattered the fluorescent lights, plunging the warehouse into flashing strobes of muzzle fire and heavy smoke.
Dominic drew his Sig Sauer, moving through the crossfire like a wraith. Every shot was deliberate, controlled, and lethal. He bypassed Vance’s grunts entirely, his eyes locked solely on the silver-haired syndicate boss scrambling toward the rear office.
Vance yanked open the office door, grabbing a shotgun from the rack.
As he turned to fire, Dominic’s bullet caught him square in the shoulder, spinning him around and sending the shotgun clattering across the concrete floor.
Vance collapsed against the desk, clutching his bleeding arm, gasping for breath as Dominic stepped into the room, his gun barrel pointed squarely between Vance’s eyes.
“You... you’re insane,” Vance choked out, blood pooling beneath his fingers. “Killing me starts a war that will burn Chicago to the ground.”
“There is no war,” Dominic said coldly. “There is only the cleanup.”
“The judge...” Vance wheezed, trying to buy time. “Pendleton? That was Miller’s idea! He begged us to do it! We just provided the tools!”
“I know,” Dominic replied. “And now, you’re providing the closure.”
Dominic didn't pull the trigger. He lowered the gun slightly, signaling Marco to step forward with a pair of heavy steel zip-ties.
“Federal prosecutors will love you, Viktor,” Dominic said smoothly. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a supermax facility in Florence, Colorado, where you won't even see the sun. It’s amazing what a little leverage can buy.”
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As Vance was hauled away, screaming curses into the night, Dominic walked out into the cool river air, wiping a streak of soot from his cheek. The battle was over. The Eastern syndicate was broken.
And for the first time in five years, the Chicago underworld belonged entirely to the Rossi family.
