Chapter 6 - The Butcher of Newtown Creek
The chemical plant off Newtown Creek was a rusted iron tomb.
The smell of sulfur, stagnant river sludge, and corroded brass filled the cold, cavernous room. Rain leaked through the broken skylights fifty feet above, splashing onto grease-slicked concrete.
Nora sat tied to a heavy steel chair in the center of the floor.
Her face was bruised, her lower lip split and bleeding where one of the guards had struck her when she refused to give them her mother's address. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back with industrial zip-ties that cut into her wrists, and her breath plumed white in the freezing, drafty warehouse.
Ten feet away, Beatrice Gallow stood beside a metal folding table, sipping espresso from a paper cup, checking her diamond-encrusted watch.
Around the perimeter, eight heavily armed Chicago soldiers patrolled the catwalks and loading docks, carrying assault rifles, their eyes constantly darting toward the heavy corrugated rolling doors.
"Ten minutes until nine," Beatrice said, glancing at Nora with a sneer. "Your precious boss hasn't even called. I told you, little girl. You're a disposable asset. To a man like Vincent Russo, a maid is cheaper than the soap she uses to scrub the floor."
Nora lifted her head, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the concrete.
"If I'm so disposable," Nora said, her voice raspy but steady, "why are your hands shaking, Beatrice?"
Beatrice froze, the paper cup pausing halfway to her lips.
"What did you say?"
"Your hands," Nora repeated, gesturing with her chin toward the paper cup. "You've checked that watch six times in the last ten minutes. You're jumping at every car that drives by on the highway. You think you set a trap for a businessman. But you didn't."
Nora’s dark eyes locked onto Beatrice’s face, cold and unblinking.
"You took something that belonged to him. And now you're realizing that he isn't coming here to trade paperwork. He's coming to kill you."
Beatrice’s face flushed with sudden, uncontrolled fury. She tossed the espresso cup aside, drew a heavy chrome revolver from her purse, and strode across the floor, pressing the freezing barrel directly against Nora’s temple.
"One more word out of you, you insolent gutter trash, and I'll blow your brains all over this floor before he even gets to the gate!"
BOOM.
The southern wall of the warehouse didn't just open; it disintegrated.
A customized, reinforced matte-black steel plow attached to the front of a ten-ton construction dump truck blasted through the corrugated siding, throwing twisted metal, concrete blocks, and brick dust across the warehouse floor.
Two Chicago guards on the ground were crushed beneath the tumbling debris before they could even shoulder their rifles.
Automatic gunfire instantly tore through the smoke.
From the shattered breach, six men in black tactical gear surged into the building, firing suppressed submachine guns with terrifying, military precision. The Chicago soldiers on the catwalks screamed as high-velocity rounds perforated their chests, tumbling over the rusted iron railings like broken mannequins.
"Kill her!" Beatrice shrieked, stumbling backward toward the rear loading exit.
The guard with the broken nose lunged toward Nora, raising a machete to take her head.
BANG.
A single, deafening shotgun blast echoed through the cavernous space.
The guard’s chest caved inward as the heavy slug tore through him, pitching his lifeless body across the floor.
Through the drifting smoke and pulverized masonry, Vincent Russo walked forward.
He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He wasn't wearing an overcoat. He wore black combat boots, dark tactical pants, and a black sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. In his hands, the Benelli shotgun smoked.
His face was a mask of cold, unrelenting slaughter.
Behind him, Paulie and four Russo soldiers fanned out, putting execution shots into every wounded Chicago man on the floor with brisk, rhythmic double-taps.
Beatrice backed toward the rusted iron fire door, her revolver shaking so violently she could barely keep it pointed at Vincent.
"Stay back!" she screamed, her voice cracking into a high-pitched wail of pure terror. "Stay back, Russo! Carmine has twenty men at the hotel! He'll wipe out your whole family!"
Vincent didn't stop. He walked at a steady, terrifying pace, his boots crunching over spent shell casings and broken concrete.
"Carmine is currently tied to a chair in my basement in Brooklyn," Vincent said, his voice flat, devoid of rage, chillingly conversational. "He gave up this address forty seconds after Paulie showed him the bolt cutters."
Beatrice whimpered, her back hitting the rusted steel of the exit door.
Vincent stopped five feet from her. He racked another shell into the shotgun chamber with a sharp, brutal clack.
"You broke into my city," Vincent whispered. "You threatened my mother. And you put your hands on this girl."
"Please," Beatrice sobbed, dropping the revolver to the floor, falling to her knees in the mud and blood. "Please, Vincent. We'll leave. We'll go to Europe. We'll never come back to the States. I have five million in bearer bonds in Zurich—"
Vincent didn't let her finish.
He raised his left hand and signaled to Paulie.
"Take her to the cellar in Red Hook," Vincent ordered coldly. "Let her wait there until Carmine’s brothers in Chicago wire the full surrender of their East Coast territories. If they refuse by sunset, put her in the concrete mixer."
Paulie grabbed Beatrice by the hair, hauling her away as she screamed and begged for mercy.
Vincent dropped the shotgun to his side and turned toward the center of the room.
Nora was still tied to the chair, her face bruised, her breathing shallow and fast.
Vincent crossed the floor in three long strides, pulled a tactical combat knife from his belt, and sliced through the industrial zip-ties binding her wrists with one clean stroke.
Nora’s arms fell limp, her circulation returning in a rush of agonizing needles. She swayed forward, her strength completely failing her.
Vincent caught her before she could hit the floor.
He gathered her against his chest, his large, scarred hand cradling the back of her head, pulling her into the warmth of his wool sweater.
Nora’s fingers dug into his shoulders, her face burying into the crook of his neck, her whole body trembling violently as the shock finally washed over her.
"I told you," Nora rasped, her voice muffled against his skin, half-laughing, half-sobbing. "I told her you were coming."
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Vincent held her tighter, his heart hammering against his ribs like an uncaged beast. For the first time in ten years, the terrifying void inside him was filled with something raw, fierce, and unbreakable.
"I've got you," Vincent breathed against her hair, smelling the faint trace of lavender through the smoke and cordite. "You're safe. I've got you."
