Chapter 3 - The Railyard Ghost
The wind howling off the Chicago River carried the sharp scent of diesel and rotting timber as Alessandro’s black Mercedes pulled up to the abandoned rail switching station off Ashland. The structure was a decaying hulk of rust-streaked corrugated iron and broken windows, looming like a tombstone against the pre-dawn gray.
Alessandro stepped out of the vehicle into the freezing slush, his long wool coat snapping in the gale. He didn't bother wearing body armor; it slowed him down, and anyone aiming at him would have to deal with the two concealed submachine guns in his trunk and the wrath of an empire coming down on their heads.
"Stay back, Vance," Alessandro ordered without turning around. "If I'm not out in twenty minutes, burn the place to the ground."
"Boss, it's a perimeter trap," Vance warned, resting his hand on his holster. "We should take the whole strike team in."
"No. They want me alone, or the child pays," Alessandro said coldly. "Keep your position."
He walked toward the massive sliding iron doors of the railyard warehouse, his boots crunching loudly over frozen gravel. The heavy door stood cracked open by a foot, a thin sliver of yellow light spilling out into the dark.
Alessandro pushed the door open with his gloved hand and stepped inside.
The interior was cavernous and dead silent, save for the dripping of a leaky pipe overhead. In the center of the vast concrete floor, beneath a single swinging halogen work light, sat a small wooden chair.
Tied to the back of it was Poppy, the stuffed rabbit.
There was no child. No guards. Just an empty room designed to mock him.
Alessandro’s hand slid instinctively toward his shoulder holster, his dark eyes scanning the catwalks high above. "I'm here!" he called out, his voice echoing off the iron rafters. "Show yourselves!"
A slow, mocking clap echoed from the shadows above.
A heavy-set man with a scarred cheek stepped out onto the metal walkway, leaning casually against the railing. Salvatore Rossi—a rogue captain from a rival Chicago syndicate that Alessandro had thought he had wiped out two years ago.
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"Well, well," Rossi sneered, looking down from his perch. "The great Alessandro Romano, walking right into the lions' den for a maid's brat. Who would have thought the butcher of the waterfront had a soft spot?"
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