Chapter 30 - The Fire at Slip Nine
Gabriel tapped the screen violently, redialing his head of security.
*Call failed.*
He dialed his mother’s private line—the encrypted relay that connected to the lightboard system in her greenhouse.
Nothing. Only the mechanical drone of an automated operator stating that the cellular towers in the northern Cook County grid were non-responsive.
"Julian," Gabriel snarled, crossing the distance to the van in three long strides, hauling Julian up by the collar of his oilskin jacket. "What did Frankie do? Tell me right now, or I swear to God I’ll throw you into that dry dock myself!"
"Frankie didn't just work for Dominic, Gabriel!" Julian gasped, his face twisting in terror as his injured shoulder strained against Gabriel’s grip. "Frankie was Dominic’s fail-safe! Dominic told him that if the European transfer failed—if the *Caledonia* was ever boarded by authorities—Frankie had orders to burn the Chicago terminal to the ground!"
"Burn Slip Nine?" I screamed, running toward them. "My father is at the terminal! He was signing the lease transfers today!"
"Not just the terminal, Maya!" Julian choked out, looking directly at Gabriel with eyes full of absolute horror. "Dominic didn't just want the docks destroyed! He wanted the board wiped clean! Frankie’s crew took two barrels of industrial accelerant to the Highland Park estate two hours ago!"
Gabriel let go of Julian’s coat as if it had caught fire.
He didn't yell. He didn't issue commands. The silence that fell over him was more terrifying than any scream of rage. His face transformed into a mask of pure, absolute lethality.
"To the plane," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a deadly, razor-sharp whisper that made his Dutch enforcers move instantly toward the Mercedes. "Now."
"What about Dominic?" the driver asked, pointing back toward the pallet where the old man sat shivering under his blanket.
"Leave him for the Dutch marshals," Gabriel commanded without looking back. "He’s a corpse who hasn't been buried yet. Move!"
We piled into the van, tires shrieking against the wet tarmac as the driver slammed the gas, hurtling down the industrial port road toward Rotterdam Airport.
Inside the vehicle, the tension was suffocating. Gabriel sat in the front passenger seat, reloading three spare magazines for his Glock, his movements mechanical, rhythmic, and chillingly precise. Beside me in the back, Julian clutched his bandaged shoulder, his face white, tears of exhaustion and terror dripping from his jaw.
I pulled out my phone, praying for a signal as we sped closer to the city center.
The screen blinked. Three bars.
A notification popped up—a news alert from the *Chicago Tribune* breaking news desk, timestamped twelve minutes ago:
**MASSIVE INDUSTRIAL EXPLOSION REPORTED AT PORT OF CHICAGO SLIP NINE; MULTIPLE CASUALTIES REPORTED AS HIGHLAND PARK RESIDENCE GOES UP IN FLAMES.**
My breath left my lungs in a ragged gasp. My hands began to shake so violently the phone slipped from my fingers, clattering against the rubber floor mats.
"Gabriel..." I choked out.
Gabriel didn't look at the phone. He didn't need to. He had seen the headline reflect in the glass of the windshield.
"How long until we reach Chicago airspace?" Gabriel asked the driver, his voice steady, horrifyingly calm.
"Eight hours, sir," the driver replied, swerving hard around a container truck. "With headwinds, maybe eight and a half."
Eight hours.
By the time our wheels touched the runway at O'Hare, the fires would have burned themselves out.
My father. Signora Rossi. The entire foundation of Vance & Sons and the Rossi empire, reduced to cinders in a single coordinated strike by a ghost we had failed to kill in time.
Julian buried his face in his hands, weeping uncontrollably against the leather seat. "It’s my fault... God forgive me, Maya, it’s all my fault..."
I didn't comfort him. I couldn't move. I looked at the back of Gabriel’s head, at the rigid line of his shoulders, at the gun resting on his knee.
We had spent months fighting a war for justice, believing that if we exposed the truth, the debt would be settled and our families would finally be free. But the truth hadn't set us free. It had handed the torch directly to the arsonist.
My phone vibrated on the floorboards.
May you like
A text message appeared on the cracked screen from an unknown, local Chicago number:
*The old man in the wheelchair made it out of the warehouse before the tank blew. But your father went back inside for the ledger. If you want what's left of him, Maya, Gabriel comes to Table Seven alone.*
