Chapter 9 - The Betrayal of Paul and the Corrupted City Officials
Before Salvatore could pull the trigger, the boathouse side door was kicked open.
Two men in dark suits stepped inside, weapons drawn.
Leading them was Paul—my restaurant manager from Bell & Harbor.
He wasn't wearing his waiter’s apron anymore.
He wore an expensive charcoal wool coat and held a Beretta 92FS with the practiced stance of a seasoned enforcer.
“Nobody moves!” Paul yelled, his voice echoing across the slipway.
I stared at him in complete disbelief.
“Paul?” I gasped. “You work for Salvatore?”
Paul glanced at me with a smirk.
“You thought I was managing a steakhouse for forty-five grand a year, Rachel? I’ve been running Salvatore’s courier pipeline through the restaurant kitchen for seven years. Every time Luca held a private board meeting upstairs, the audio feeds went straight to Salvatore’s safe house in Gary.”
Luca didn't seem surprised at all.
“I wondered who unlocked the back service entrance for Salvatore’s goons tonight,” Luca said. “You always did have sticky fingers, Paul.”
Paul pointed his gun at Luca.
“Shut up, Moretti. Hand over the flight cases.”
Behind Paul, two city police cruisers pulled up on the pier outside, their red and blue strobe lights splashing through the wooden slats of the boathouse walls.
For a split second, relief washed over me.
“The police are here!” I exclaimed.
Luca shook his head grimly.
“Don’t look so happy, Rachel. Those aren't city cops. Look at the unit numbers.”
I looked through the window.
The cruisers didn't have standard Chicago Police markings.
They were private port authority security vehicles owned by Bellini Marine Logistics.
Out of the lead cruiser stepped Deputy Commissioner Thomas Vance—a man whose face was on every civic billboard across the county.
Vance walked into the boathouse, a smug, contemptuous grin on his face.
“Evening, Luca,” Vance said smoothly. “Looks like we have an active terrorist incident on the waterfront. Multiple explosions, armed combatants. A real tragedy when the heirs of both the Moretti and Bellini estates eliminate each other in a private warehouse fire.”
Salvatore chuckled from the upper catwalk.
“Thomas,” Salvatore called down. “Did you bring the transport van?”
“Waiting at the main gate, Salvatore,” Vance replied. “As soon as we secure the flight cases and light the fuse, the fire department won't be able to get through the barricades for twenty minutes. Plenty of time for the records to turn to ash.”
I looked at Vance, then at Paul, then at Salvatore.
The entire system—the restaurant, the city port authority, the private security firms—had been hollowed out from the inside by Salvatore’s syndicate.
Frank Delaney took a step forward, standing between me and Paul’s gun.
“You haven't changed in thirty years, Vance,” Frank said, his voice dripping with disgust. “You were just a dirty port inspector taking five-hundred-dollar payoffs back in ninety-eight. Now look at you. Wearing a four-thousand-dollar suit, still doing Salvatore’s wet work.”
Vance sneered at Frank.
“You should have stayed on that bus in Milwaukee, old man. You could have died warm in a flophouse instead of freezing in the lake.”
Vance turned to Paul.
May you like
“Kill them. Grab the flight cases.”
Paul raised his weapon and aimed directly at Frank’s forehead.
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