Chapter 12 - The Kidnapping and the Fury of Roman Rossi
Despite the destruction of the Moretti leadership, a rogue faction of desperate mercenaries remained in hiding on the industrial outskirts of Gary, Indiana.
Three days before Thanksgiving, Sadi was traveling under a heavy three-car armed convoy to Michigan Avenue for the final fitting of Chloe’s wedding guest gown. Even after the confrontation with her mother, Sadi had agreed to attend the ceremony for her sister’s sake, provided Brenda kept her distance.
As the convoy crossed the skyway bridge near the industrial canal, a massive cement truck deliberately ran a red light, slamming violently into the lead security SUV.
The armored vehicle spun across three lanes of traffic, flipping onto its roof in a shower of sparks.
"Ambush!" the driver of Sadi’s Maybach yelled into his radio, slamming the transmission into reverse. "Sector four! We have heavy contact on the bridge!"
Before the driver could complete the maneuver, two black vans boxed the Maybach in from behind. Six masked men in heavy body armor emerged, firing armor-piercing rounds directly into the engine block and radiator, disabling the vehicle instantly.
They used an industrial hydraulic ram to breach the rear passenger door.
"Get off her!" Sadi’s personal guard shouted, firing his sidearm until he was struck in the shoulder by a stun baton.
Sadi fought like a wildcat. She kicked, scratched, and drove the heel of her shoe into the knee of the first attacker, but a heavy hand clamped a chloroform-soaked rag over her mouth and nose.
The world spun into a sickening blur of sweet chemical fumes and darkness.
Her last thought, as her consciousness slipped away into the void, was of Roman’s dark, protective eyes.
When Sadi awoke, her head was throbbing with a vicious, blinding headache.
She was tied to a rusted metal support beam in an abandoned, drafty steel warehouse near the Gary shipyards. The cold wind whipped off the lake through shattered corrugated siding, smelling of rust, stagnant water, and sulfur.
Standing in front of her were four men—the remnants of Moretti’s private hit squad, led by a ruthless mercenary named Vance Keller.
"She’s awake," Keller grunted, racking the slide of his tactical rifle.
He picked up a heavy satellite phone, dialed an encrypted number, and hit speakerphone.
The line clicked.
"Rossi," Roman’s voice came through the speaker. It was not panicked. It was not frantic. It was a sound of such absolute, cosmic, terrifying stillness that the hair on the back of the mercenaries' necks stood on end.
"We have your girl, Rossi," Keller said into the phone, attempting to sound in control. "We want fifty million dollars in untraceable bearer bonds and a private jet fueled at Gary International Airport by sunset. If we see a single drone or security vehicle within five miles of this facility, I put a bullet through her skull."
There was a three-second silence on the other end of the line.
When Roman spoke, his voice was smooth, quiet, and carried the weight of an executioner reading a final decree.
"Keller," Roman murmured softly. "You have made a fatal geographical error."
Keller frowned, looking around the rusted warehouse. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"You are currently standing in Warehouse 14 on the Gary industrial canal," Roman said calmly. "A facility my family purchased in 1984. You believe you are hidden behind five miles of dead land. But you forgot rule number one of Chicago."
Suddenly, the massive concrete floor beneath their feet began to vibrate with a low, bone-jarring rumble.
"Look up, Keller," Roman’s voice whispered through the phone.
The warehouse’s industrial skylights shattered simultaneously in a deafening shower of safety glass.
Four tactical ropes dropped through the roof, followed instantly by twelve black-clad operators descending like phantoms, armed with suppressed assault rifles and thermal targeting optics.
Before the mercenaries could even raise their weapons, a hail of precision fire cut through the gloom. Three of the kidnappers dropped instantly, eliminated with terrifying, surgical efficiency.
Keller grabbed Sadi, pulling her in front of him as a human shield, pressing his pistol against her temple. "Stay back! I’ll kill her! I swear to god I’ll kill her!"
The main corrugated steel doors of the warehouse were ripped completely off their hinges by an armored tactical truck.
Stepping through the smoke and dust was Roman Rossi.
He was not wearing a sling. He wore a heavy black wool coat, his dark hair whipped by the lake wind, holding a customized assault shotgun at his hip. His dark eyes were burning with a demonic, unholy fury that made Keller visibly wet his pants.
"Drop the weapon, Keller," Roman said, walking toward him with slow, unstoppable strides.
"Stay back, Rossi! I’ll blow her brains out!" Keller screamed hysterically.
Sadi locked eyes with Roman across the warehouse. In his eyes, she saw no hesitation—only absolute, unshakeable trust.
Sadi threw her head violently backward, driving the hard crown of her skull directly into Keller’s nose.
CRACK.
Keller shrieked in agony as his nasal bone shattered, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second.
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That fraction of a second was all Roman needed.
Roman raised the shotgun and fired a single, devastating slug straight through Keller’s chest, launching the mercenary backward five feet into a stack of rusted steel pipes, dead before he touched the ground.
