The charred ruins of the Falcone logistics warehouse on 26th Street in Cicero still smoldered under the heavy, slate-gray November sky. A biting winter wind whipped through the industrial district, carrying the acrid stench of cordite, melted vulcanized rubber, and burned diesel fuel that stung the throat. Lorenzo Falcone stepped through the shattered steel bay doors, his heavy charcoal wool overcoat open, his Kimber .45 resting securely in its bespoke…
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