Chapter 12 - The Wolves of Detroit
The Goose Island brewery had been abandoned since the mid-nineties.
Rusted vats hung from iron girders like slaughtered carcasses, and puddles of brown water pooled over cracked industrial concrete.
In the center of the subterranean floor, five men in heavy wool trench coats stood shivering around a single halogen work lamp.
Their leader was a thick-necked, scar-faced enforcer named Hector Moretti, distant kin to the New York families and Paulie Croft’s most trusted hitman.
Hector tapped an unlit cigarette against a chrome lighter, his boots tracking rust across the floor.
“Romano is stalling,” one of the younger gunmen muttered, his hands jammed deep into his coat pockets.
“He’s playing daddy in church while his shipping terminals sit locked down by federal warrants.”
Hector sneered, spitting onto the floor.
“The man went soft the minute that fat South Side girl laid on his shoes.”
“A real capo puts a bullet in a compromised mistress, he doesn't put an antique ring on her finger.”
Footsteps echoed from the overhead metal grating.
Slow.
Rhythmic.
Unyielding.
The halogen lamp flickered once as the iron door at the end of the catwalk creaked open.
Arthur Romano descended the rusted spiral staircase alone.
His overcoat hung unbuttoned over his tailored suit, his hands resting easily at his sides.
Behind him, the catwalk remained empty, though the faint green dots of infrared optics danced silently along the rafters above.
Hector stood his ground, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“You took your sweet time, Romano.”
“The Detroit family doesn't wait in cold cellars for men who play choirboy on Sunday.”
Arthur stepped off the bottom rung, his leather shoes silent on the damp floor.
He stopped six feet from Hector, towering over the enforcer with cold, imposing indifference.
“You are standing in my cellar, Hector.”
“You breathe my air, and you stand on my concrete.”
“If you have words from Paulie Croft, deliver them before I lose my patience.”
Hector pulled an unsealed manila folder from inside his coat and tossed it at Arthur’s feet.
The papers scattered over the wet concrete, revealing photographs of Henderson’s Diner during its reconstruction.
Among them were long-lens telephoto shots of Chloe pushing a stroller through the estate gardens, and Toby entering his university lecture hall.
Arthur did not look down at the photographs.
His eyes never left Hector’s throat.
“Paulie wants his thirty million repaid by Friday midnight,” Hector stated with deliberate arrogance.
“He wants sixty percent of the Calumet Harbor loading slips transferred to Detroit logistics.”
“And he wants the girl and the bastard child handed over to a neutral convent in Michigan until the balance is cleared.”
A silence so profound fell over the brewery that the faint dripping of water forty yards away sounded like falling artillery shells.
Arthur’s face did not twitch.
He did not shout.
He did not reach for his sidearm.
He simply tilted his head, a faint, terrifying calm washing over his chiseled features.
“A convent,” Arthur repeated, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
“Paulie thinks he is very generous,” Hector laughed, thinking he saw hesitation in the don’s eyes.
“He could have just told us to plant plastic explosive under that fancy stroller.”
Before Hector’s laughter could clear his throat, Arthur’s left hand struck like a coiled viper.
His fingers clamped around Hector’s windpipe with bone-crushing ferocity.
Arthur drove the two-hundred-pound enforcer backward, slamming his spine into a massive steel support pillar with a deafening boom.
The other four gunmen reached for their pistols, but they never cleared leather.
From the shadows of the upper catwalks, suppressed fire from Leo Barnes and three Romano marksmen whispered through the damp air.
Four precise double-taps echoed in rapid succession.
The four Detroit gunmen collapsed onto the concrete, dead before their knees hit the floor.
Hector gagged, his face turning an alarming shade of indigo as Arthur lifted him several inches off the floor by his throat alone.
Arthur pulled his customized Kimber .45 from his shoulder holster with his free hand, pressing the cold, heavy barrel directly into Hector’s open mouth.
The metal clinked against Hector’s gold-capped front teeth.
“Tell Paulie Croft that his thirty million was spent on my son’s christening cake,” Arthur whispered softly into Hector’s ear.
“Tell him that if another Detroit dog takes a photograph within ten miles of my wife, I will personally drive a bulldozer through his lakehouse.”
Arthur pulled the weapon from Hector’s mouth, flipped the heavy slide, and brought the butt of the steel frame down violently across Hector’s jaw.
The bone shattered with a sickening crack.
Hector crumpled to the ground, weeping and choking on blood and broken teeth.
Arthur stepped over the ruined enforcer, not even glancing at the corpses cooling around the halogen lamp.
“Leo,” Arthur called out toward the rafters.
Leo dropped down from the iron ladder, landing cleanly on the balls of his feet.
“Boss?”
“Put Hector on the evening passenger train back to Detroit.”
“Pin those photographs of Chloe to his chest with an ice pick so Paulie gets the message.”
“And Leo?”
“Yes, Arthur?”
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“Burn this brewery to the ground before you head out.”
“The smell of dead traitors makes me lose my appetite, and my wife has dinner waiting at seven.”
