Chapter 6 - MIDNIGHT AT SANTORO’S
The back room of Santoro’s Importing & Exporting smelled of expensive Cuban cigars, stale scotch, and simmering paranoia.
Around the green-felt poker table sat four of South Philadelphia’s most notorious underworld figures. At the head of the table sat Victor Santoro—a stocky, silver-haired snake of a man who wore too many gold chains and fancied himself the new king of the docks.
"Let’s face facts, gentlemen," Santoro laughed loudly, tossing a stack of poker chips into the center of the table. "Elias Baron is finished. A man confined to a rolling chair can't run a criminal empire. The feds broke him physically, and that little society girlfriend of his dropping him like a bad habit broke him mentally. It’s time for a new regime."
The other capos murmured in agreement, nervously eyeing the door. Everyone knew the Baron name commanded respect, but blood ran thin when power was up for grabs.
Suddenly, the heavy iron-reinforced oak doors at the front of the warehouse didn't just open—they blew inward with a deafening crash, splintering wood and bending steel hinges.
Silence descended over the poker room instantly.
From the shadows of the loading dock rolled Elias Baron.
He wasn't hiding. He sat tall and straight in his steel wheelchair, his black custom suit impeccably pressed, a cold, predatory smile playing on his lips. Flanking him on either side were six massive enforcers carrying submachine guns under their heavy coats, led by Warren, who casually tossed a bloody zip-tie onto the poker table.
Behind Warren walked a quiet, unassuming figure carrying a black medical briefcase.
Victor Santoro scrambled backward, his chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor. His face drained of color. "Elias... how... you’re supposed to be..."
"Dead? In a ditch?" Elias finished for him smoothly, wheeling forward until the front casters of his chair stopped right at the edge of the green felt table. He rested his hands casually on his knees. "Victor, you really shouldn't listen to gossip. It rots the brain."
"Elias, look, this was just... a misunderstanding," Santoro stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. "We were just talking business—"
"So was I," Elias interrupted, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet whisper that carried across the entire room. He tilted his head toward the man behind Warren. "Dr. Vance, if you please."
Clara Vance stepped out from the shadows.
She wore a crisp white lab coat over a dark blouse, looking entirely out of place in a den of hardened criminals. She calmly walked up to Santoro, opened her metal briefcase, pulled out a sterile surgical scalpel, and placed it gently on the table right next to Santoro’s pile of chips.
Santoro stared at her, terrified. "What is this?"
"Mr. Santoro," Clara said, her voice completely calm and clinical. "Mr. Baron informed me that you have a severe case of overambition coupled with terminal disrespect. As a medical professional, I specialize in removing tumors before they become fatal."
Elias let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated through the room.
"Here are your choices, Victor," Elias said, leaning forward, his dark eyes locking onto the trembling capo. "You sign over your share of the Delaware shipping lanes to Baron Logistics by sunrise, or Dr. Vance performs an unscheduled amputation of your right hand without anesthesia. Choose carefully. She’s an excellent surgeon, but her bedside manner leaves much to be desired."
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Santoro looked at the cold steel of the scalpel, then up at Elias’s unblinking gaze, and finally at the six armed enforcers waiting for a single twitch.
With shaking hands, Santoro grabbed a pen and signed his name on the dotted line of the transfer contract Warren slammed onto the table.
