Chapter 10 - The Rage of the Don
Three miles away, inside the private executive boardroom of the Moretti Port Authority, Dante was mid-sentence in a negotiation with three trade union leaders.
Suddenly, the sleek satellite phone resting on the mahogany table vibrated violently, emitting a high-pitched, piercing alarm chime that echoed through the vast room.
Dante stopped talking instantly.
He picked up the phone. On the screen, a red flashing map bloomed into view, centered on Grand Avenue. Beside the map, three bold red words flickered:
BEACON ACTIVATED: NORAH HAIL.
Dante’s blood turned to liquid ice.
Before the union leaders could ask what was happening, Dante stood up, kicking his heavy leather chair back so hard it slammed into the glass wall behind him, shattering the outer pane.
He pulled a black semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster, chambered a round with a violent, loud CLICK, and strode toward the boardroom doors.
“Dante?” one of the Capos blurted out in shock. “What’s wrong?”
“Marco!” Dante roared down the hallway, his voice sounding like thunder before a storm. “GET THE STRIKE TEAM! NOW!”
Four minutes later, five heavy black SUVs roared through the streets of Chicago at ninety miles an hour, running red lights, forcing civilian traffic onto the sidewalks.
Inside the lead SUV, Dante sat in the passenger seat, his dark face completely devoid of human expression. He was holding a tactical tablet showing the live feed from Grand Avenue.
Marco was driving, his silver hair windblown from the open window, his phone jammed against his ear.
“Boss!” Marco reported, his voice tight. “Security Team Two on Grand Avenue just checked in. Two of our guards are wounded. The street was blocked by a commercial truck. The attackers used smoke and automatic weapons.”
“Is she there?” Dante asked, his voice so quiet, so deadly cold it made Marco’s spine shiver.
“No, Boss,” Marco said quietly. “They took her. They loaded her into a black panel van heading toward the south side industrial docks.”
Dante’s fingers crushed the edges of the digital tablet until the plastic casing cracked under his strength. The raw, possessive fury that had awakened in him three days ago now burned with the heat of a thermonuclear warhead.
“Who was it, Marco?” Dante demanded softly.
Marco pulled up a traffic camera feed on the secondary monitor. “We ran the plates on the getaway van. It belongs to a dummy corporation owned by the Genovese remnant faction—specifically, Lorenzo Rizzio.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed into slits of liquid black death. “Lorenzo Rizzio.”
“There’s more, Boss,” Marco added, hesitating for a fraction of a second. “Ten minutes before the ambush, three encrypted calls were placed from Lorenzo Rizzio’s burner phone to a private line registered to the Serrano Estate in Lake Forest.”
Dante slowly turned his head to look at Marco.
“Camila,” Dante whispered, the name leaving his mouth like poison.
“Yes, Boss,” Marco confirmed. “Camila Serrano leaked Miss Hail’s schedule to Rizzio.”
Dante reached into his jacket, pulled out a second satellite phone, and speed-dialed a number.
The line rang twice before Eleanor Moretti answered in Lake Forest. “Dante? What is happening? My guards say your strike team just left the tower—”
“Mother,” Dante interrupted, his voice dropping into an absolute, chilling command that allowed no debate. “Send four security teams to the Serrano Estate immediately. Detain Victor Serrano and Camila Serrano. If Camila tries to leave the house, shoot the tires of her car. If she resists, break her legs. Do not let her speak to anyone until I arrive.”
Eleanor went quiet for two seconds on the other end of the line. She heard the sheer, unbridled murderous intent in her son’s voice—a voice she hadn't heard since the night his father was killed.
“It will be done in ten minutes, Dante,” Eleanor replied steadily. “Find the girl.”
Dante ended the call and looked out the windshield at the rainy streets speeding past.
“Marco,” Dante commanded, his hand resting over the dark grip of his weapon. “Where are they taking her?”
“Pier Forty-Two,” Marco answered, stepping on the accelerator, pushing the massive SUV to its absolute limit. “An abandoned shipping warehouse by the river.”
Dante looked down at his watch. Exactly eight minutes had passed since Norah’s beacon had flared blue.
“Lorenzo Rizzio thinks he captured a bargaining chip,” Dante said softly, his dark eyes glowing with a terrifying, unholy light as the skyscraper skyline gave way to the dark industrial docks of the Chicago River. “He is about to find out he brought the end of his world right to his front door.”
Inside the damp, pitch-black interior of Warehouse Forty-Two, cold rain rattled violently against the rusted corrugated metal roof.
Norah woke up tied to a heavy wooden chair in the center of a vast, empty concrete floor. Her head throbbed with a blinding ache from the chemical gas, and her mouth tasted like copper and dust.
Standing twenty feet away, illuminated by a single hanging work light, were six armed men in leather jackets. Standing in front of them was Lorenzo Rizzio, tossing a heavy silver pocket knife from hand to hand.
Norah tried to move her hands, but heavy nylon ropes bound her wrists tightly behind the chair. Her cream-colored dress was stained with dirt, but the single sapphire necklace still glowed brightly against her throat.
Lorenzo walked over to her, a cruel, mocking smile on his scarred face. He reached out with the flat blade of his knife, tilting her face up by the chin.
“So you’re the maid,” Lorenzo sneered, his cold eyes scanning her face. “The little girl who made Dante Moretti forget four years of business logic.”
Norah pulled her chin back from the knife, her eyes wide with fear, but her chin held high. “Dante will kill you for this.”
Lorenzo threw his head back and laughed—a dark, grating sound that echoed off the high rafters. “Dante Moretti doesn't know where you are, little girl! By the time he figures out which warehouse you’re in, your sweet body will be at the bottom of Lake Michigan, and the Serrano family will be running his shipping ports!”
Norah swallowed hard, her heart pounding against her ribs. She looked down at her coat pocket. The silver key fob was gone, but she remembered Dante’s words in the library:
“If you ever press this button... I will tear the city apart to get to you.”
She looked up into Lorenzo’s cruel eyes and smiled—a tiny, fearless, devastating smile.
“He knows where I am,” Norah whispered with absolute, unwavering trust. “And he’s already here.”
Lorenzo’s smile faltered. “What?”
Before Lorenzo could answer, the massive steel double doors of the warehouse were suddenly violently blown off their hinges by a massive breacher charge.
BOOM!
A blinding flash of light and a deafening explosion shattered the quiet warehouse. The heavy steel doors folded in half, launching through the air and crushing two of Lorenzo’s armed guards against the concrete wall.
Smoke and fire roared into the space.
Out of the flames and thick black smoke stepped Dante Moretti.
He wore no body armor, no helmet, and no tactical shield. He walked through the burning wreckage holding a heavy black pistol in his right hand, his suit coat unbuttoned, his broad shoulders silhouette against the roaring fire behind him.
Behind him stepped Marco Russo and twelve heavily armed Moretti tactical operators, their laser sights cutting red lines through the dense smoke.
Lorenzo’s remaining men screamed in panic, raising their weapons.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Dante didn't even slow his stride. He fired three shots with terrifying, surgical precision. Three of Lorenzo’s men dropped to the floor before their fingers could touch their triggers.
The remaining two guards threw their weapons onto the concrete, dropping to their knees with their hands raised, screaming for mercy.
Lorenzo Rizzio went completely pale, his knife dropping from his shaking fingers, striking the floor with a dull CLINK. He backed away toward a rear emergency exit, his eyes wide with sheer, paralyzing terror as he stared at the demon walking through the fire.
Dante didn't even look at the guards on their knees. He didn't look at Lorenzo.
His dark eyes swept across the vast, smoky room, fixing instantly upon the small woman tied to the wooden chair under the hanging light.
When he saw her stained cream dress, the dark ropes cutting into her small wrists, and the smudge of dirt on her pale cheek—Dante’s dark eyes filled with a raw, terrifying agony that transformed into pure, unadulterated slaughter.
Dante raised his weapon, aimed without looking, and fired a single shot past Lorenzo’s head, shattering the emergency exit lock behind him, sealing the door forever.
Dante walked slowly across the concrete floor, his boots crunching on shattered glass, until he stopped three feet in front of Norah’s chair.
He lowered his weapon.
In front of his armed guards, in front of his enemies, and in front of the burning ruined doors, Dante Moretti dropped to his knees on the cold, dirty concrete floor before her.
His heavy, broad hands reached out, shaking with intense, restrained emotion as his long fingers gently cupped her face, wiping the dirt from her pale cheek with his thumb.
“Norah,” Dante breathed, his voice breaking with a terrifying, beautiful tenderness. “Did they hurt you?”
Norah looked down at the terrifying Don kneeling at her feet in the dust and smoke, feeling his warm hands holding her face as if she were the most precious creation in the universe. Tears spilled over her eyelashes, falling onto his hands.
“I knew you’d come,” Norah sobbed softly, resting her forehead against his. “I knew you’d find me.”
Dante pulled a tactical knife from his belt, slicing through the heavy nylon ropes binding her wrists in a single fluid motion. The second her hands were free, Norah threw herself into his arms, burying her face into his neck, holding onto his broad shoulders with all her remaining strength.
Dante wrapped his massive arms around her, lifting her completely off the chair, pulling her tight against his chest, burying his face into her hair, his entire powerful frame trembling as he held her safe in his embrace.
“You’re safe now, my sweet girl,” Dante whispered fiercely into her ear, his heart hammering violently against hers. “No one will ever lay a hand on you again. I promise you on my life.”
Dante stood up slowly, carrying Norah easily in his arms like a bride, holding her securely against his chest.
He turned his head slowly to look at Marco, who was standing beside a terrified, trembling Lorenzo Rizzio.
“Marco,” Dante commanded, his voice dropping into a cold, terrifying whisper that signaled the complete and absolute end of his enemies.
“Yes, Boss?” Marco asked.
May you like
“Take Rizzio to the lower basement of the tower,” Dante said, walking past the burning wreckage toward his waiting SUV. “And tell my mother I am coming to the Serrano Estate to finish this once and for all.”
Norah snuggled deeper into Dante’s warm, powerful chest as he carried her out into the fresh, cool rain. The broke maid who had stepped into a broken elevator four days ago was gone forever. Standing in her place was the woman who had brought Chicago’s most dangerous billionaire to his knees in daylight—and she knew, with complete and absolute certainty, that as long as Dante Moretti drew breath, she would be loved, protected, and worshipped for the rest of her life.
