Chapter 7 - The Hostage on the Docks
The rain had returned, turning the shipping docks of South Philadelphia into a cold, black mirror of the sky.
Sadie sat in the front seat of the armored SUV, her hand tightly gripping the stiletto Declan had given her. She had refused to stay behind at the penthouse. "If your sister is there, she’ll need someone who isn't a monster to look at her when she gets out," she had told him.
Declan had not argued.
The meeting was held at Warehouse 14—a massive, rusting hangar filled with crates of imported marble.
Don Morello stood at the center of the room, a bloated, aging man who smelled of cheap gin and damp wool. Beside him, tied to a wooden chair, was a young girl with dark hair and pale, tear-streaked skin. Declan’s sister, Teresa.
"Declan," Morello sneered, his voice wet and raspy. "You've been hard to find. I see you've brought your little kitchen help with you."
"Let her go, Morello," Declan said, his voice dropping to that low, terrifying register that made the very air turn cold. "The docks are yours. The northern routes are yours. Just let her go."
"Oh, it's not that simple, boy," Morello laughed, pulling a silver pistol from his belt and pressing the barrel to Teresa’s temple. "I want your signature on the deed of transfer. And then, I want you to watch me slide this blade across your pretty little chef's throat."
A shadow moved in the rafters above.
Marcus and his sniper team had arrived, but the Morellos had three shooters positioned behind the crates, their red laser sights dancing across Declan’s chest.
"I don't think you're in a position to make demands, Morello," Sadie said, taking a step forward from behind Declan’s shoulder.
"Shut up, girl!" Morello roared. "You're nothing but a—"
"I'm the person who prepared your dinner tonight," Sadie said, her voice completely calm, her eyes locked on Morello's face.
Morello froze, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"
"The truffles," she whispered, a small, cold smile touching her lips. "The ones your driver picked up from the Royal Theater basement yesterday? They weren't truffles. They were Amanita phalloides. Death cap mushrooms. I ground them into the butter your chef used for your steak tonight."
Morello’s face went entirely white. He slowly reached for his stomach, his hand trembling as a sudden, violent spasm of pain racked his body.
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"You... you lying bitch," he gasped, his knees buckling.
"In exactly three minutes, your liver will begin to fail," Sadie said, taking another step forward, the stiletto in her hand catching the dim light of the warehouse. "Unless you want to die on this concrete, I suggest you tell your men to drop their weapons."
