𝗔𝗰𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀

Ten.

Piercing shrieks of sheer pain once again reverberated through the damp, bleak emptiness of the former Wichita Packing Co. in the far west suburbs of Chicago...

The once-thriving meatpacking facility, flourishing in the small Ukrainian Village neighborhood in the early 1960s with its freshly butchered swine goods—ribs, loins, and uniquely pickled snouts—now stood as a bare skeleton of its former glory.

Visitors once lauded the butchery for its idealized location beneath the steel, elevated train tracks of the Chicago "L" system, inherently foreshadowing the final squeals of the slaughtered.

No one minded the freshness of their meats, as long as it was done routinely, every twenty minutes, just as the train passed through the quaint, old-worldly neighborhood.

Empty and vacant for nearly sixty years due to the rise in sustainable veganism and corporate standards of slaughtering, the Wichita Packing Co is now internally repurposed for another type of meat slaughter...

Soaked within his own perspiration induced by terror, fifty-seven-year-old Mike Dowels trembled with the notion of dead silence following each cry of the three men dragged away before him.

Strictly blindfolded and bound with duct tape by his feet, hands, and back to a single wooden chair. As the moments ticked away, Mike's heart pounded in his chest, and the cold sweat on his palms betrayed the imminent threat. This was no random act; he could feel it in every fiber of his being.

He and the other men before him worked for Rikers Island, a private security firm specifically hired and handsomely contracted to protect clients who prefer to remain under the radar.

A job, which everyone already knew, was no easy task; but with greed, money talked.

Consequently,  flesh squealed.

A forceful blow sent Mike and his chair backward, careening to an unknown location. Earl, a short and unexpectedly older man, released the chair, sending Mike crashing onto the red-stained cement floor.

Moaning from behind the strip of black duck tape, a bit of blood oozed from Mike's right ear as the trauma simultaneously numbed the back of his head and internally created a sensation of vertigo.

"Mike Dowels," Earl announced to the small crowd of people ahead of him, "the technical pierdolić."

Internetwork surveillance was Mike's area of expertise at Rikers Island. Phone tracking, geo-networking surveillance, cordless videotaping, automated voice recording—basically anything revolving around local satellite networks and radio signals.

His six-year doctrine separates him from other "technical fucks," but Mike knew he was currently in no position to correct anyone.

Someone removed the makeshift blindfold from his face, revealing a pair of pale blue eyes observing his reactions. The daunting six-foot, bulky-built, tan-colored senior hovering over Mike was none other than Angelo Montanari himself.

Only physically meeting the elder once during their initial security consultation—Mike understood that age was irrelevant; for Angelo kept himself in pristine shape; with a built figure, little-to-no grays, and a clean-shaven look, no one within the entire city of Chicago could have guessed his real age.

Ranked by the Tribune as the most wanted mobster since the era of Al Capone, Angelo Montanari was never afraid to dig into the ashes of hell to obtain what he needed. City onlookers spoke whispers of him sharing a drink or two and consorting his business at the Green Mill with the infamous ghosts of the past, and, on occasion, Satan himself.

Angelo's reputation echoed across the state—a man with a fiery heart and a pair of wings untainted by compromise. But today, his flame burned more than faith.