Chapter 13 - The Midnight Raid on Lake Michigan
The Detroit syndicate's primary stash house sat behind an innocuous seafood packaging plant on the freezing shores of Lake Michigan. It was a fortified concrete bunker containing millions in untraceable cash and imported contraband. They believed it was impregnable.
They had never factored in Dominic Moretti leading the vanguard.
At 2:14 AM, the heavy steel loading bay doors blew inward with a deafening roar of C-4 charges. Smoke choked the warehouse as black-clad Moretti enforcers poured through the breaches like an invading army. There was no negotiation, no warning, and no quarter.
Dominic stepped through the settling smoke, his heavy black wool coat sweeping the concrete floor, his pistol raised with lethal stability. The Detroit enforcers scrambled for cover, but they were outgunned, outmaneuvered, and utterly terrorized.
The local boss, a heavy-set brute named Viktor Vance (no relation to the traitorous Nico), tried to flee toward the back office. Before he could reach the door, Dominic’s boot slammed into the wood, splintering the frame and sending Viktor sprawling backward onto a desk stacked with ledgers.
Dominic walked forward, pressing the barrel of his gun squarely against Viktor’s breastbone.
"You shot at my lobby," Dominic whispered, his tone terrifyingly quiet. "You threatened my home. And now your entire organization is paying the blood tax."
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"Moretti—wait—we can cut a deal—" Viktor gasped, choking on his own panic.
"There is no deal," Dominic replied, pulling back the hammer. "There is only my mercy, and right now, I left mine seventy floors above the city."
