Mafia’s Angel of Vengeance

The screams from the warehouse had finally stopped.

I wiped the blood from my knuckles with a silk handkerchief, watching as Leo dragged what remained of Mickey Kowalczyk toward the lake. The bastard had been skimming from our liquor shipments for months, thinking I wouldn't notice. In my line of work, trust was a luxury I couldn't afford, and betrayal was a disease that required surgical removal.

"Boss," Leo called out, his voice cutting through the October wind that whipped off Lake Michigan. "You want me to weight him down proper?"

"Do it right," I replied, not bothering to look back. Mickey had been useful once, but usefulness had an expiration date. In Chicago's underworld, you were either predator or prey, and I'd clawed my way to the top by ensuring I was always the former.

The private dock behind my warehouse was perfect for this kind of work—isolated, deep water, and far enough from prying eyes. I'd bought this stretch of shoreline specifically for nights like these, when business required a more permanent solution than broken bones or threats.

I lit a cigarette, the flame from my gold lighter illuminating the scar that ran from my left temple to my jaw—a reminder from my early days when I'd been foolish enough to trust the wrong man. That mistake had nearly cost me everything. I'd never made it again.

The splash echoed across the water as Leo finished his work. Mickey Kowalczyk would become another cautionary tale, whispered in the speakeasies and back alleys about what happened to those who crossed Kazimierz Kowalski.

"All done, boss," Leo said, walking back toward me while adjusting his coat. "Should send a clear message to the other—"

He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes fixed on something in the water. I followed his gaze and saw it—a flash of white fabric caught in the moonlight, drifting toward our dock like some ghostly apparition.

"What the hell is that?" Leo muttered, reaching for the gun inside his jacket.

I stepped closer to the water's edge, my eyes narrowing as the object came into focus. It was a woman in a wedding dress, floating face-down in the dark water. Her elaborate gown billowed around her like a shroud, the fabric waterlogged and heavy. Strands of dark hair fanned out around her head, and even from this distance, I could see the crimson stain spreading from what looked like a gash on her face.

"Looks like someone had a very bad wedding night," I said, taking a long drag from my cigarette. "Probably jumped from one of the bridges. Happens more than you'd think."

But something about this scene felt different. Wrong. The way she'd drifted directly to my dock, as if the lake itself had delivered her to me. I'd learned to trust my instincts in this business—they'd kept me alive when bullets and betrayal should have killed me years ago.

"Want me to push her back out?" Leo asked, already moving toward the boat hook we