Chapter 8 - The Bait at the DocksMidnight at the Chicago River docks was a graveyard of rusted shipping containers, freezing wind, and crashing black water. A single semi-truck idling near Pier 4 cast long, sweeping headlights across the concrete expanse.
Inside the cab, a Valente enforcer kept his hands steady on the wheel, waiting for the signal. In the back of the trailer sat three heavy wooden crates marked with high-value security seals—though inside, they contained nothing more than bricks and a high-frequency tracking beacon broadcasting a signal straight to Rossi’s decrypted frequency.
Two hundred yards away, hidden inside the shadow of a towering crane, Alio Valente and his tactical team lay in wait. The freezing air bit through Alio’s heavy wool coat, but he didn't move a muscle. His eyes were locked on the access road leading into the port.
"They're taking their time," Luca whispered through the comms.
"Let them come," Alio replied softly. "Greed makes men sloppy."
Suddenly, the sweeping headlights of three unmarked black SUVs tore around the corner, their tires screeching against the wet pavement. The vehicles swerved, cutting off the semi-truck from both sides and slamming to a halt.
Doors flew open in unison. Armed men in tactical gear poured out, weapons raised, instantly surrounding the truck.
Stepping out from the lead SUV was a man with sharp, silver-streaked hair, a tailored trench coat, and a cold, calculating smile that hadn't aged a day in five years.
Vincent Rossi.
Rossi walked slowly toward the cab of the truck, his breath pluming in the freezing air. He tapped twice on the driver's window with the barrel of a polished silver revolver.
"Step out, boys," Rossi called out, his voice echoing across the silent docks. "The game’s over."
Inside the truck, the driver slowly opened the door and stepped down, putting his hands up.
Rossi laughed, a sharp, arrogant sound. He turned to his lead gunman. "Open the back crates. Let’s see what Alio was trying so desperately to smuggle out of his own city."
The gunman stepped up to the back of the trailer, pulling the heavy latch. The metal doors swung wide open.
Inside, there was no cash. No gold. No illegal contraband.
Instead, glowing in the center of the empty trailer was a single, heavy leather collar resting on a velvet pillow—and right beside it, a digital tablet flashing a countdown timer.
May you like
Rossi’s smile vanished instantly. He stepped forward, his eyes widening in horror as he read the glowing red text on the screen.
WELCOME TO YOUR FUNERAL, VINCENT.
