Chapter 8 - The Wolf Unleashed
Twenty minutes later, Warehouse 14 was a slaughterhouse.
Falcone’s rearguard lay dead or groaning on the blood-soaked concrete. Vittorio Moretti sat bound to a steel chair in the center of the room, his clothes torn, his heavy cane snapped in half at his feet.
Luca stood before his father, ignoring the deep crimson stain spreading across his shoulder where Marco had hastily wrapped a field dressing. Luca’s eyes were completely dead, hollowed out by a rage so profound that even his own men backed away in terror.
“Where did Falcone take her?” Luca asked, his voice chillingly quiet.
Vittorio spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at his son. “You fool. Carmine is taking her to the old grain silos at the Calumet Harbor. Bianca wants her broken before they put her in the concrete mixer. You’ll never make it in time. And even if you do, Carmine has fifty men waiting for you.”
Luca leaned down until his face was inches from his father’s. “You helped them plan this. You gave them the green light to take her.”
“She is a Castiglione!” Vittorio snarled, his voice breaking with aged spite. “Her existence threatens everything I built! I gave you life, Luca! I gave you this empire!”
“You gave me a nightmare,” Luca whispered.
Luca pulled his Beretta, pressed the barrel against Vittorio’s kneecap, and squeezed the trigger.
CRACK!
Vittorio screamed, an agonizing wail of pure agony that echoed through the iron rafters.
“That was for my mother,” Luca said without a trace of remorse. He turned his back on the broken patriarch and looked at the dozen capos who had switched their allegiance to Sofia.
“Marco,” Luca commanded, his voice ringing with absolute authority. “Call every crew from Cicero to Evanston. Tell them the Castiglione bloodline has returned. Anyone who brings me Carmine Falcone’s head gets five million dollars. Anyone who harms a hair on Sofia’s head... will have their entire bloodline erased from the earth.”
The men nodded solemnly, energized by the dark aura of leadership radiating from the young Don.
May you like
“Mount up,” Luca ordered, racking the slide of an assault rifle with one hand. “We’re painting the harbor red.”
***
