Chapter 6 - THE RED NIGHT ON MICHIGAN AVENUE
The snow fell heavily over Michigan Avenue, dusting the black pavement in a thick sheet of white.
Outside The Velvet Lounge—Lorenzo Moretti’s primary nightclub and headquarters—four heavy black SUVs pulled up silently to the curb, their engines rumbling in the freezing night air.
Inside the club, Moretti’s fifty armed enforcers were stationed at every window, balcony, and doorway, rifles raised, waiting for a frontal assault.
Moretti sat in his VIP booth on the second floor, drinking scotch, his heavy face flushed red with adrenaline.
"Keep your eyes on the front doors!" Moretti barked into his radio. "The second Caruso's trucks breach the glass, mow them down!"
Suddenly, every light inside the club died.
CLICK.
Total darkness engulfed The Velvet Lounge.
"What the hell?!" Moretti shouted, standing up in his booth. "Check the generators!"
Before his men could move, the heavy glass skylights high above the dance floor shattered simultaneously.
CRASH!
Flashbang grenades dropped from the roof, detonating in a blinding, deafening explosion of light and sound.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Moretti’s guards screamed, clutching their ears and eyes, completely disoriented.
Vincent Caruso’s elite tactical squad, clad in night-vision gear and body armor, rappelled down from the roof framing through the shattered skylights, landing silently on the carpeted floor.
Suppressed gunfire echoed through the dark club.
PEW-PEW-PEW.
Within three minutes, Moretti’s fifty men were disarmed, subdued, or flat on the floor.
The main club lights flickered back on.
Vincent Caruso stepped through the shattered front entrance, wearing a long black cashmered overcoat over his white dress shirt. He didn't carry a weapon in his hands. He walked with total, terrifying calm across the ruined dance floor, stepping over broken glass and discarded weapons.
He walked up the grand staircase to the VIP balcony.
Lorenzo Moretti sat on the leather sofa, his hands raised in terror, his gun lying on the table three feet out of his reach.
"Vincent... wait..." Moretti stammered, sweat washing down his heavy jowls. "We can settle this! The Commission can mediate! I'll give you the southern docks! I'll pay ten million in restitution!"
Vincent stood over him, looking down with cold, unyielding eyes.
"You put a bomb in a white box," Vincent said softly. "You tried to use a child's curiosity to blow up my home."
"It was Adrian's idea!" Moretti lied frantically, throwing his hands up higher. "Adrian said the kid wouldn't be anywhere near the table! He swore it!"
Vincent pulled a sleek, silver-plated pistol from his coat pocket—the birthday gift he had received earlier that evening from his loyal captains.
"The Commission has already been notified, Lorenzo," Vincent told him. "They voted ten minutes ago. Unanimous authorization."
Moretti’s eyes went wide with realization. "No... Vincent, please—"
BANG.
The gunshot echoed once through the cavernous nightclub, then fell completely silent.
Vincent turned around, wiping a speck of dust from his black overcoat sleeve.
"Dante," Vincent commanded, walking back toward the stairs. "Clean this place up. Secure all Moretti properties under the Caruso name by sunrise."
"Yes, Boss," Dante bowed his head. "And what about Adrian in the basement?"
May you like
Vincent paused at the top of the stairs, looking out at the snow falling through the broken skylight.
"Tell Adrian his debt has been paid," Vincent said smoothly. "And put him on a plane to Sicily. He lives the rest of his life in a mountain village without a single dollar to his name. If he ever steps foot in America again, put him in the lake."
