Chapter 19 - WRATH OF THE KING
Lorenzo clawed his way out of the burning debris of the rail yard, his tuxedo jacket shredded, his face painted with soot and blood. Dante pulled him up, coughing violently. The ambush had cost them five men, but Lorenzo didn't care about the men. He cared about the deafening silence on the radio.
"Evelyn!" Lorenzo roared into the dead comms. He sprinted two miles through the industrial labyrinth to the extraction point, his lungs burning. When he found the van, doors open, his men dead on the ground, a primal, earth-shattering scream tore from his throat.
"Boss," Dante said gently, putting a hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder. "We will find her. We tear the city apart block by block."
"No," Lorenzo said, his voice void of any human emotion. His eyes were completely black, stripped of the man Evelyn had loved, replaced entirely by the monster he had once been. "We don't search. We slaughter. Call every favor, every corrupt cop we own, every street gang we pay. Anyone with a Russian accent dies tonight until someone gives me an address."
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Chicago burned. The Moretti syndicate unleashed hell on earth. Nightclubs, import fronts, and illicit gambling dens owned by the Bratva were raided in a symphony of hyper-violent efficiency. By dawn, a terrified Bratva lieutenant, bleeding out on a warehouse floor, gasped out an address: an old, decommissioned meatpacking plant on the outskirts of Gary, Indiana.
Lorenzo loaded his weapons. "Dante. No survivors."
