Chapter 17
Ten minutes later, the underground parking garage of St. Jude’s Hospital was shrouded in thick, tense silence.
Three heavy black SUVs bearing Illinois license plates were blocked by eight armored Moretti vehicles.
Standing in the center of the concrete garage was a broad-shouldered man in a gray trench coat, flanked by six armed thugs.
It was Sal Caccamo, the infamous enforcement director for the Chicago Commission.
Vincent Moretti stepped out of the private elevator, accompanied by twenty heavily armed tactical operatives.
The gold lion head on his walking stick glinted sharply under the harsh fluorescent lights of the bay.
“Sal,” Vincent spoke, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet garage like a drawn blade.
“You are a long way from the Loop.”
Sal Caccamo adjusted his leather gloves, stepping forward with an arrogant, condescending grin on his face.
“Vincent,” Sal nodded coldly. “We aren't here to start a war with New York.”
“We’re just here to collect what’s ours.”
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“Your daughter’s ex-husband owes my boss twelve million dollars from the casino accounts.”
“And in our business, family pays the debt.”
