Chapter 9 - The Ambush at Navy Pier
The atmosphere inside the subterranean council chamber turned to absolute ice as Luca slid the yellowed 1994 ledgers toward Don Carmine Barzini.
Barzini adjusted his half-moon spectacles, opening the first volume.
For five agonizing minutes, the only sound in the cavernous room was the dry rustle of parchment and the low, collective muttering of the six underbosses leaning over Barzini’s shoulders.
“These are the original shipping manifests from the Port of Chicago,” Barzini murmured, his voice hardening with every line he read. “Forty million dollars diverted through shell companies in Panama... signed by Salvatore Bellini. Stolen from Arthur Moretti while his wife was dying in hospice.”
Barzini looked up from the ledger, his cold eyes fixing on Salvatore.
“You didn't just embezzle from Arthur, Salvatore. You stole from the commission pension fund. You stole from the widows of the men who died during the 1992 union strikes.”
Salvatore’s silver hair seemed to bristle. He realized, with terrifying suddenness, that the commission’s ancient codes of brotherhood were turning against him like a tidal wave.
“Arthur was a weak fool who was losing his mind over a sick woman!” Salvatore shouted, his composure shattering into raw, venomous rage. “I kept this city running! I negotiated the southern supply routes! You old relics sit here talking about honor while the federal government is breathing down our necks!”
“And speaking of the federal government,” Luca interrupted, his voice cutting through Salvatore’s shouting like a frozen blade.
Luca tossed a thin digital flash drive onto the granite table.
“That drive contains audio recordings intercepted from Salvatore’s private terminal at midnight,” Luca said. “A recorded conversation between Salvatore Bellini and Assistant United States Attorney Richard Miller. Salvatore agreed to provide federal investigators with the names, bank accounts, and warehouse locations of every capo sitting at this table in exchange for full immunity and the transfer of the Moretti maritime charter to his daughter.”
The seven commission elders sprang to their feet as one.
Chairs scraped violently against the concrete floor. Hands moved inside tailored suits, gripping concealed firearms.
To steal money was a crime that could be repaid in blood or cash; to sell the commission to the federal government was an unforgivable, capital treason that demanded total extermination.
“You rat!” Capo Falcone roared, pulling a snub-nosed revolver from his waistband. “You brought the feds to our front door!”
Before Falcone could raise his weapon, Salvatore Bellini reached beneath his camel-hair coat.
He didn't pull a pistol.
He pulled a handheld detonator with a glowing red LED switch.
“NOBODY MOVES!” Salvatore screamed, backing toward the auxiliary blast doors.
His eight bodyguards instantly formed a defensive phalanx, drawing automatic submachine guns, leveling them at the commission elders.
“I wired the ventilation shafts of this building with four hundred pounds of commercial C4 two years ago!” Salvatore snarled, his eyes wild with psychotic desperation. “If a single shot is fired, I bring forty-four stories of the Board of Trade down on our heads!”
Vanessa scrambled behind her father, clutching his coat, her face pale with terror.
“Move to the service lift!” Salvatore barked to his men. “Keep them pinned!”
Salvatore’s mercenaries began backing out through the blast doors, their weapons trained on the granite table.
“Luca!” I screamed, grabbing his arm as he moved to pursue them.
“Stay behind the table, Emma!” Luca ordered, his voice ringing with absolute authority. “Marco, get Rosa and Emma behind the reinforced bunker partition! Now!”
The blast doors slammed shut, followed by the muffled thud of an explosive breach in the upper elevator shaft.
Salvatore wasn't trying to blow the building down; he was using the threat of demolition to buy time for an emergency extraction.
“They’re heading for Navy Pier!” Marco shouted, monitoring his tactical radio. “Salvatore has an offshore private yacht docked at the east slip! If he clears the harbor, he can slip into international waters through the Saint Lawrence Seaway!”
Luca’s jaw locked into granite.
He turned to Don Barzini.
“Barzini. Give the order.”
Don Barzini picked up his ebony cane, slamming the silver eagle head onto the granite table with a thunderous crack.
“Under the authority of the High Commission,” Barzini proclaimed, his voice shaking the vaulted ceiling, “the House of Bellini is declared *Morto*. Erase them from the earth.”
Luca unholstered his Beretta, racking the slide.
He looked at me, his eyes burning with an intense, unyielding promise.
“Wait for me at the Gold Coast house, Emma. I am going to finish this.”
“No, Luca,” I said, stepping forward, refusing to let go of his sleeve. “I know the layout of the Navy Pier cargo berths. My father’s logistics union operated those exact piers for twenty years. The east slip has an automated hydraulic barrier controlled from the harbormaster’s annex. If you don't drop that barrier, his yacht can outrun your patrol boats in open water.”
Luca stared at me for two breathless seconds.
A slow, breathtaking smile of absolute admiration broke across his face.
May you like
“Then let’s go drop the gate, my queen.”
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