Chapter 17
The interior of refrigerated container 408 smelled of mold, frozen rust, and human suffering. A single battery-powered emergency lantern flickered weakly on the floor, casting a dim amber glow over the back corner. Slumped against the corrugated steel wall, bound to an iron support beam with heavy chains, was a man.
Daniel Evans was thirty-eight years old, but the past three weeks of systematic torture had aged him by decades. He was emaciated, wearing a torn, bloodstained dress shirt and dress trousers that hung loosely from his starving frame. His face was a horrific tapestry of deep purple bruises, cuts, and dried blood. His left eye was swollen completely shut, his breathing a shallow, painful wheeze. Yet, as the heavy doors swung open and the cold air rushed in, Daniel weakly lifted his head, his single open eye flashing with a fierce, desperate defiance.
"I won't... give you the password, Sal," Daniel rasped, his voice barely audible above the howling wind outside. "You can kill me... but you will never... touch my children..."
A heavy pair of combat boots stepped into the container.
Dominic Moretti walked forward, his imposing silhouette blocking the light from the doorway. He reached into his tactical vest, pulled out a pair of heavy wire cutters, and with two swift, powerful snips, severed the iron chains binding Daniel’s wrists and ankles.
Daniel collapsed forward, his strength completely exhausted. But before his battered face could hit the metal floor, Dominic’s massive, warm hands caught him securely by the shoulders, supporting his weight.
"Easy, Daniel," Dominic said, his deep voice carrying a quiet, unexpected warmth. "You are safe now. The fight is over."
Daniel blinked weakly, struggling to focus through the swelling in his eye. He saw the sharp, strikingly handsome features, the short dark hair, and the dark black tattoos creeping up the neck. Recognition hit him like an electric shock.
"Mr... Mr. Moretti?" Daniel stammered, coughing violently as tears cut clean trails through the grime on his face. "You're... you're here?"
"I am here," Dominic confirmed, gently hoisting the emaciated accountant up, wrapping one of Daniel’s thin arms over his broad, muscular shoulder. "And your children are safe at my estate."
Daniel’s breath hitched in his chest. His entire body began to shake with violent, overwhelming sobs. "Lily? Noah? They're... they're alive?"
"They are warm, fed, and protected," Dominic promised, his tone an unbreakable vow. "Lily gave me the drive. She told me to find her father. Now, let’s get you home."
Vance stepped into the container, helping Dominic carefully carry Daniel out into the fresh night air. Two tactical medics immediately rushed forward with a portable stretcher, gently securing Daniel and covering him with heated thermal blankets before wheeling him toward the medical transport van.
Dominic turned back to the center of the loading platform.
Salvatore Rossi was still on his knees in the freezing mud, clutching his broken jaw, surrounded by four heavily armed Moretti operators with rifles aimed at his head. The traitor looked up as Dominic approached, his eyes wide with a pathetic, groveling terror.
"Dominic... listen to me!" Sal begged, his voice muffled by his swollen mouth. "I did it for the family! The Detroit cartel was going to muscle into Chicago anyway! I was trying to secure our borders! I’ve been loyal to your father, and I’ve been loyal to you for twenty years!"
Dominic stopped two feet away, looking down at the man who had stood at his right hand for a decade. His face was entirely devoid of anger; there was only the cold, mechanical detachment of an executioner carrying out a necessary judgment.
"You brought weapons of war into my city, Sal," Dominic said, each word falling like an iron weight. "You stole from my ports. But your greatest crime... was putting a price on the heads of an eleven-year-old girl and an eight-month-old infant. You forgot the fundamental rule of this syndicate. We do not touch women, and we do not touch children."
"Dominic, please! Exile me! Take my money! Take everything!" Sal wept, pressing his forehead into the freezing mud. "Don't kill me!"
"Death is too clean for a man who starved a baby," Dominic replied coldly. He looked up at Vance. "Strip him of his coat. Hand him over to the federal agents waiting at the perimeter, along with the full forensic ledger. By morning, every asset Sal owns will be seized by the United States government. He will spend the rest of his natural life in a supermax federal penitentiary, sharing a cell block with the very cartel bosses he tried to double-cross."
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Sal’s eyes widened in sheer, catastrophic horror. A quick death by a bullet was a mercy compared to being thrown penniless into a federal prison full of betrayed cartel killers. "NO! DOMINIC, NO! SHOOT ME! JUST SHOOT ME!"
Dominic turned his back on the screaming traitor, walking toward his command vehicle. "Clear the yard. We are going home."
