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“I will take my soldiers and attack their homes until I find her.”
I know Gwen is at “Velvet Handcuffs”.
“I hope this raid doesn’t backfire and turn into a shit show!” Travis sounds worried.
“If you want anyone to disappear let me know. The Outfit will take care of them.”
“What about the New York Bratva? Bobby, you will be labeled as a ‘rat’ for working with law enforcement.”
“What the fuck do I care? I am sick of the Russians! The Antonovich brothers need to be put in their place after the shit they pulled with the Razors. The Bratva are losing ground in New York. They think they can expand their empire in Chicago and take over. Do you really want the Bratva to run Chicago?”
“No, they are vicious bastards! Do you really think we can get away with this? The Bratva have a long reach.” Murphy states.
“I don’t give a fuck. I am not afraid of them! I am sick of them trying to call the shots in my town!”
Enough talking. I am getting pissed. I want to drive over to that club and shoot everybody.
“Okay. It will take a couple of hours to get the warrant and assemble SWAT teams, FBI teams and police.”
“Fine Travis, just hurry. Call me before you strike. We will wait outside if you need any clean-up work. Let me know when you find my wife.”
I end the conference call.
Bobby
11:30 P.M.
I sit in my black, bullet-proof, SUV with my driver, and three bodyguards. We are parked across the street and a half a block down from the Antonovich’s strip club, “Velvet Handcuffs”.
I am a snitch. I ratted out the Antonovich brothers to the cops. My only non-violent move. Risky but necessary. This will ruin my reputation. I don’t care. I couldn’t rescue Gwen any other way without her being killed. Paul Jr. can run the Outfit now. I only want Gwen safe. I am in love with her. I never thought I would fall in love with any woman. I will do anything for her. Give up everything for her – my life, my money, capo, the Outfit, everything.
I watch as SWAT teams, police cars, paddy wagons, and FBI vans silently roll up in front of the Russian club. Loud rap music is coming from inside. The fucking Russian bouncer sitting on a bar stool outside the door, is falling asleep. He is in for a surprise.
My soldiers and I aren’t allowed to go anywhere near “Velvet Handcuffs”. I am getting impatient. I feel tightly wired - ready to spring. I worry about Gwen. It has been almost twelve hours since those Russian bastards abducted her. I know they will not kill her. I hope she is not being beaten or sexually assaulted. I am counting on Christov Antonovich to protect her. He plans on marrying her after they kill me and make her a widow.
The surprise raid goes off without any gunfire. The cops arrest the bouncer at the door before he can warn anyone inside.
SWAT, cops, and FBI agents are hauling out girls, customers, and handcuffed Bratva soldiers. People are unceremoniously shoved into waiting paddy wagons. Hopefully, the Beckman listened to me when I told him the Russians would try and escape out the door behind the club. I would hate to see anyone get away.
The raid has gone on for thirty minutes now. The loud music has stopped. I rub my face in frustration. What a long day! I want it to be over. I want to take my wife home. She will be pissed that I did not come for her. I will make it up to her.
I see the paramedics arrive and go into the club. Somebody is hurt. Shit! I hope it is not Gwen. My cellphone rings.
I answer. The call is from a blocked number.
“Vincenzio.” I answer.
“Bobby, we found your wife. She seems okay. The paramedics are looking at her. She is in the basement if you want to come in. The Antonovich brothers and their soldiers have been arrested.” Murphy informs me.
I end the call. I climb out of the backseat of my SUV. I hurry over to the club. My bodyguards are right behind me. The Chicago Street has potholes that we dodge as we run. I can hear gravel scraping under our shoes.
The police are putting up yellow crime scene tape to cordon off the club. I see Detective Murphy at the entrance. He tells the cop to let us through. We enter the club. Chaos. I smell dust, vomit, body odor and sex. Cops wearing riot gear are everywhere wrecking the club while conducting a search. Half-naked women are crying. Male customers are arguing with cops. Several FBI agents are carrying out laptop and desk top computers. I don’t think Bogan Antonovich is stupid enough to store the incriminating video of the DA on one of his hard drives.But who knows?
“Where’s the basement?” I ask a cop walking by.
“Through that door,” the cop points, ”down the hall, last door on the left.”
I head towards the basement. The floors are sticky like the floors in a cheap movie theater. I walk down the dimly lit rickety wooden stairway to the basement. My men are right behind me. I see three custom-built jail cells with bars in the dark basement – this is where the Russians hold their victims. Reminds me of the dungeon in our club where we torture people.
