Chapter 5 - The Salvage YardThe black Mercedes SUV cut silently through the deserted, rain-slicked streets of Chicago’s industrial sector at 1:15 a.m. The windshield wipers beat a steady, hypnotic rhythm against the glass as we veered off the main highway into a sprawling, fenced-in commercial salvage yard lined with towering stacks of corrugated metal, old shipping containers, and rusted machinery.
In the passenger seat, I watched Luca’s profile in the dim glow of the dashboard. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked rhythmically in his cheek.
“We’re here,” Luca muttered, steering the SUV toward a dimly lit corrugated steel warehouse at the back of the lot.
A heavy iron security gate barred the entrance. Before Luca could even pull out his phone, a thick-set man in a heavy canvas jacket stepped out of a guard booth, took one look at the license plate, and frantically waved his hand for the gate to open.
Luca parked right beside a large, unmarked box truck backed up to the warehouse loading bay.
We stepped out into the biting morning chill. The air smelled of wet asphalt, old motor oil, and rusted iron.
A heavy-set man with a thick grey beard hurried out of the warehouse side door, wiping his hands on a greasy rag.
“Mr. Moretti!” the man called out nervously, jogging over. “Damn, boss. What brings you out to the yard at this hour? I thought you were hosting a big society shindig tonight.”
“The shindig ended early, Sal,” Luca said, his voice unnervingly calm as he approached the warehouse owner. “I’m here to pick up a delivery.”
Sal blinked, looking confused. “A delivery? At one in the morning? Nobody called—”
“A red-haired woman in a red dress dropped off a truckload of vintage woodworking equipment from my estate this afternoon,” Luca interrupted, stepping closer until he towered over the older man. “Cast-iron lathe, vintage drill press, oak workbench components. I want them loaded back into my SUV right now.”
Sal’s face went slack. He swallowed hard, shifting his weight uneasily from boot to boot. “Oh... oh shit. Mr. Moretti, I didn't know it belonged to your personal estate! A woman came by around four o'clock with signed transfer papers bearing the Moretti household stamp—”
“Forged papers,” Luca snapped. “Where is my father’s workbench, Sal?”
Sal raised his hands defensively, backing up toward the warehouse door. “Look, man, I’m just a middleman! The gear is inside, but... but it’s already been processed into the morning auction catalog. A buyer from out of state put down a cash deposit three hours ago!”
Luca’s expression darkened into something terrifying. He didn't raise his voice, but every fiber of his body radiated lethal intent.
“Sal. My father built that workbench with his own hands in 1987. My son cried himself to sleep tonight because someone tried to steal it.” Luca stepped right into the man’s personal space. “Are you going to tell me who bought it, or am I going to walk into your warehouse and take it back piece by piece?”
Sal paled visibly. He knew Luca Moretti’s reputation wasn't just corporate bluster.
“Okay! Okay! Back dock, bay four!” Sal blurted out, pointing frantically. “The buyer is a local collector named Marcus Vance—wait, relation to your..."
Luca didn't wait to hear the rest. He pivoted on his heel, striding toward the back dock with me hurrying right behind him in the cold rain.
May you like
Marcus Vance. Vanessa’s brother.
The web of betrayal was unraveling faster than either of us could have imagined. This wasn't just a disgruntled fiancée trying to remodel a garage; it was an orchestrated family heist.
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