Chapter 12 - The Reckoning at the East Side Docks
Down by the industrial riverfront, far away from the warmth and light of Kilbourne Street, Vince Rossi was pacing furiously across the concrete floor of his warehouse hideout.
His two enforcers stood near the loading bay, smoking in silence.
“Where is he?!” Vince barked, checking his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. “Marcus should have called back by now! If he got caught poking around Vance’s operations, we need to move our stash before—”
Screech.
The heavy steel security gate of the warehouse didn't just open—it was violently rammed open by the front bumper of a matte-black SUV that roared inside, kicking up dust and gravel across the concrete floor.
The headlights flashed blindingly bright, pinning Vince and his men in the center of the bay.
Vince reached instinctively for the snub-nosed revolver tucked into his waistband, but before his fingers could even brush the grip, the doors of the SUV flew open.
Four men in charcoal-gray suits stepped out.
And leading them, walking with calm, unhurried precision through the exhaust smoke, was Paulie Russo.
“Vince,” Paulie said, his gravelly voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls like thunder. “The boss sends his regards.”
“You’ve got no jurisdiction here, Paulie!” Vince yelled, pulling his gun and leveling it at Paulie’s chest. “This is East Side territory! Vance Holdings owns the corporate towers, but the streets still belong to—!”
Before Vince could finish the sentence, a heavy, deafening crack rang out from the shadows above.
A sniper bullet punched cleanly through the metal beam three inches above Vince’s head, showering him in a cloud of iron filings and paint chips. Vince froze, his finger locking on the trigger as cold sweat beaded across his forehead.
From the overhead catwalk, a red laser dot flickered lazily across the center of Vince’s chest.
Paulie didn't even blink. He walked forward, reached out with one thick hand, and gripped the barrel of Vince’s gun, forcing it downward with casual, terrifying strength. He pried the weapon from Vince’s trembling fingers as easily as taking candy from a child.
“Vince,” Paulie said softly, leaning in close so the scent of expensive tobacco and cordite washed over the smaller man. “Dante Vance doesn't care about East Side territory or West Side territory. He cares about balance sheets. And right now, your operation is showing a catastrophic deficit in living assets.”
“What do you want?!” Vince choked out, his knees finally buckling as his enforcers dropped their weapons into the dust without a fight.
Paulie stepped back, pulling a pristine, crisp document from his jacket pocket and letting it flutter down onto the concrete floor like a business card.
“Starting tomorrow morning, every warehouse, pool hall, and protection racket operating under your name is being liquidated to satisfy a structural debt owed to Vance Holdings,” Paulie said flatly. “You have until sunrise to pack your bags and catch a train out of the state. If you’re still within city limits by noon tomorrow... the laser dot won't miss.”
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Paulie turned around, motioned to his men, and walked back toward the black SUV.
As the vehicle reversed out into the rainy night, leaving Vince kneeling alone in the dirt of his empty warehouse, the final, messy chapter of the city's old underworld officially closed for good.
