Chapter 14 - Breaking the Irish Fortress
The heavy oak doors of Arthur Gallagher’s executive suite shattered inward with a deafening crash as a directional C4 charge blew the reinforced locking mechanism into splinters.
Thick clouds of white smoke and pulverized wood drifted across the room.
Before the smoke could even begin to clear, tactical flashbangs sailed through the threshold, detonating with blinding, disorienting flashes of magnesium light and thunderous concussive force.
Gallagher’s remaining elite guards screamed, stumbling backward, their night-vision goggles fried and their ears ringing uncontrollably.
Through the smoke stepped Lorenzo Moretti, his rifle raised, moving with cold, calculating precision.
Behind him walked Beatrice, her massive frame anchoring her stance as she swept the corners of the room with the SR-25.
In less than thirty seconds, the entire Irish defense collapsed.
The guards who tried to raise their weapons were met with immediate, surgical down-range impacts that dropped them instantly onto the Persian rug.
Arthur Gallagher stumbled backward against his mahogany desk, clutching a nickel-plated Colt .45 pistol in his sweating hand.
His face was drenched in sweat, his eyes darting frantically between the dead men on the floor and the towering figure of the woman stepping through the smoke.
“You... you're the maid,” Gallagher choked out, his voice cracking with sheer terror as he pointed the trembling pistol toward Beatrice.
“You're just the cleaning lady.”
Beatrice stopped five feet away from him.
She lowered the SR-25 to a low-ready position, her expression completely devoid of human warmth or mercy.
“I clean up trash, Mr. Gallagher,” Beatrice replied, her voice a low, gravelly alto that echoed menacingly in the ruined office.
“And right now, this room is filthy.”
Gallagher roared in desperate panic, attempting to level his pistol and squeeze the trigger.
He didn't even complete the motion.
Before the barrel could clear his chest, Beatrice stepped forward with blinding, explosive speed—defying every illusion of her heavy, lumbering disguise—and struck the underside of his wrist with the reinforced butt of her rifle.
The Colt .45 flew from Gallagher’s fingers, clattering uselessly across the hardwood floor.
With a swift, fluid motion, Beatrice grabbed him by the collar of his expensive suit, hoisting his feet entirely off the ground and slamming him hard against the mahogany desk.
Gallagher gasped for air, his hands clawing uselessly at her thick forearms as his face turned a deep, bruised purple.
Lorenzo walked slowly across the room, stepping over a fallen guard, and stood directly in front of the struggling Irish syndicate boss.
He looked down at Gallagher with eyes as cold and dead as winter ice.
“You thought you could blind my estate, kill my men, and carve up my city while hiding behind proxy thugs and corrupt cousins,” Lorenzo said softly, his voice dangerously calm.
“You forgot one fundamental rule of the Chicago underworld, Arthur.”
Lorenzo leaned in close, whispering into Gallagher's ear.
“You never, ever mess with the person who holds the keys to the house.”
Gallagher choked, his eyes bulging as he stared at Lorenzo in sheer terror.
“P-Please... take everything... take the ports... take the money...” Gallagher croaked out, saliva spilling down his chin.
Lorenzo straightened up, his face hardening into absolute finality.
“I am taking everything, Arthur,” Lorenzo replied quietly.
He looked toward Beatrice.
“Finish it.”
May you like
With a cold, mechanical flick of her wrist, Beatrice released her grip, letting Gallagher slump gasping onto the floor before delivering a swift, decisive end to the turf war that had threatened to tear Chicago apart.
The South Side Irish syndicate had ceased to exist.
