Chapter 9 - The Wrath of the Southern Don
The old sugar refinery loomed over the Mississippi River like a rusted iron
cathedral.
Rain pooled in deep ruts along the gravel access road.
Four black cargo trucks were backed up against the loading dock.
Dozens of armed men were transferring heavy olive-drab crates from a river
barge.
Among them stood Vito and Santino—Lorenzo’s traitorous capos.
And leaning against the hood of an armored Mercedes was Salvatore Delacroix
himself.
A hulking man in a leather trench coat, smoking a thick cigar.
"Where the hell is Bianca?" Delacroix growled, checking his gold watch.
"She was supposed to deliver the Geneva vault codes three hours ago."
Vito spat on the ground.
"The storm delayed her. Lorenzo is dead. The old woman is in the crypt. The
Moretti empire is ours for the taking."
From the dark tree line behind them, a deep, terrifying bark echoed through the
fog.
Vito froze.
"What was that?"
Through the mist stepped Baron.
His head was low.
His white teeth gleamed against black lips.
"That’s... that’s Maria’s dog," Santino whispered, backing up.
"He drowned in the bayou!"
"Dogs don't drown in shallow water, Santino," Lorenzo’s voice boomed from the
shadows.
Three dozen Moretti soldiers stepped from the tree line with automatic rifles
raised.
The crossfire was set.
The trap was sprung.
Delacroix swore, drawing a submachine gun.
May you like
"OPEN FIRE!"
The refinery erupted into a war zone.
