Chapter 8 - The Fall of the South Side
“Drop your weapons,” Victor commanded, his voice ringing out like a judge's hammer. “Now.”
Rossi swallowed hard, looking desperately around the warehouse as he realized his men were completely outmatched. Slowly, shaking with rage and humiliation, Rossi dropped his pistol to the concrete floor. His thugs followed suit, letting their rifles clatter down one by one.
Victor stepped slowly toward Rossi until they were standing face-to-face. Even though Rossi was taller, Victor towered over him in sheer presence and authority.
“You wanted a war, Dante?” Victor whispered, so quietly that only the two of them could hear. “You just lost it in thirty seconds.”
“You can't touch me,” Rossi hissed, trying to maintain a shred of dignity. “The commission will retaliate—!”
“The commission doesn't exist anymore,” Victor interrupted smoothly. “As of an hour ago, your financial accounts in the Caymans have been frozen by my associates, and your lieutenants on the docks have all pledged their loyalty to me. You are finished, Dante.”
Rossi lunged forward in a desperate, blind rage, trying to grab Victor by the throat.
It was a fatal mistake.
In less than a second, Victor sidestepped the clumsy attack, grabbed Rossi's outstretched wrist with iron strength, and twisted it sharply behind his back. Rossi let out a loud, agonized shriek as his shoulder joint popped.
Victor slammed Rossi face-first onto the cold concrete floor, pinning him beneath his knee.
“Marcus,” Victor called out coldly without looking back. “Take him to the harbor warehouse. Have him put on a freighter bound for South America tonight. He is never setting foot in Chicago again.”
“Consider it done, Boss,” Marcus replied, stepping forward with zip-ties and handcuffs.
As Rossi was dragged away, kicking and screaming obscenities into the night air, Victor stood up, straightening his suit jacket. He turned around and walked back toward me.
The tension in the warehouse evaporated, replaced by a heavy, respectful silence from the surrounding men.
Victor stopped right in front of me, his dark eyes softening instantly as he looked into my face.
“Are you alright, Rachel?” he asked, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from my forehead.
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“I'm... I'm okay,” I breathed, looking up at him with a mixture of awe and deep, enduring gratitude. “I've never seen anything like that in my life.”
“You never have to see violence again,” Victor promised, taking my uninjured hand in his. “It's over, Rachel. The storm has passed.”
