Chapter 4 - The War for the North Side
The clock on the wall struck 11:45 p.m.
The heavy double doors of the penthouse elevator lobby didn't open with a chime. They were forced apart with an iron crowbar.
Three men in dark tactical gear stepped into the dim marble foyer, their automatic rifles raised, scanning the dark corridor. Behind them stood Raymond Cole himself—a broad, sixty-year-old man with silver hair and a scarred jaw, wearing a heavy leather trench coat.
"Clear the rooms!" Cole ordered in a harsh whisper. "Find Moretti and finish it! Whitaker’s daughter is inside—make sure she’s secured before the police arrive!"
Before his men could advance two steps down the corridor, the lights in the foyer flared to life with blinding brilliance!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three precise shots shattered the silence of the forty-second floor!
The three tactical operatives dropped instantly onto the black granite floor, blood pooling beneath them into the marble veins.
Raymond Cole stumbled backward, pulling a heavy revolver from his coat, his eyes wide with shock as he stared down the bright hallway.
Dante Moretti stepped out from the shadow of the archway.
He was no longer wearing his blood-stained white shirt. He wore a heavy dark bulletproof vest over a black tactical shirt, two fresh magazines clipped to his belt, his semi-automatic pistol held at eye level. Behind him, emerging from the service stairwell with a bandaged shoulder and an automatic rifle, stood Marcus.
"Raymond," Dante said softly, his voice echoing through the marble foyer with the terrifying weight of an executioner. "You're late."
Cole’s jaw twitched. He raised his revolver, but before his finger could press the trigger, Marcus fired a short burst into Cole’s right shoulder!
RAT-TAT-TAT!
Cole screamed in agony, dropping his revolver, crashing hard onto his knees against the bloody marble floor.
Dante walked forward with slow, deliberate steps, his shoes making no sound against the stone. He stopped three feet from the wounded syndicate boss, looking down at him with icy indifference.
"Arthur Whitaker gave you the security codes, didn't he?" Dante asked quietly.
Cole wheezed, blood trickling from his lip, his face pale with pain. "Whitaker... Whitaker said you were distracted... he said your wife was leaving you tonight... he said the penthouse was wide open..."
Dante leaned down, pressing the cold barrel of his pistol directly against Cole’s forehead.
"My wife," Dante whispered, every word dropping like a lead weight, "just spent three years saving my life from pieces of trash like you and Arthur Whitaker."
"Moretti... wait... we can negotiate—"
BANG.
Dante didn't look down at the body. He turned to Marcus.
"Clean the foyer," Dante ordered flatly. "Take four men and go down to the street. Arthur Whitaker is waiting in an armored Sedan at the corner of Michigan Avenue."
Marcus nodded grimly, racking his rifle. "What do you want done with Whitaker, Boss?"
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Dante pulled Elena’s leather notebook from his pocket, looking down at her slanted handwriting under the foyer lights.
"Bring him up here," Dante said, his grey eyes turning into dark, bottomless pits of absolute vengeance. "My wife has three years of questions for her father."
