Chapter 4 - The Lion’s DenBy noon on Christmas Day, Viktor Vance received my message.
He didn't call my secure line; he sent a representative—a greasy, over-caffeinated underboss named Frankie who waltzed into the executive suite of my downtown hotel as if he owned the lobby.
My security team didn't stop him at the door. They let him walk right into my private office on the fiftieth floor.
I was sitting behind my massive mahogany desk, sipping black coffee, reviewing architectural blueprints for a new riverside development.
Frankie tossed a heavy gold signet ring onto my glass coffee table. It clattered loudly against the polished surface.
“Viktor sends his regards, Mr. Vale,” Frankie sneered, leaning against the back of an armchair uninvited. “He says you’re stepping out of your weight class. That little brat and her mother stumbled into something at the south docks—shipping manifests they shouldn't have seen. Viktor wants the kid back. Clean and quiet. Hand her over, and we forget you ever stuck your nose into our business.”
I didn't look up from my blueprints.
“Frankie,” I said, my voice dangerously calm.
“Yeah?”
“Look out the window.”
Frankie frowned, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling glass panels that overlooked the Chicago riverfront. “What am I looking at?”
“See those three container ships docked at Pier 42?” I asked, finally raising my eyes to meet his. “Those belong to the Vale shipping fleet.”
“So what?”
“So, as of ten minutes ago, my harbor patrol seized every single one of those vessels, impounded their cargo, and locked down every warehouse Viktor owns between 18th Street and the canal.”
Frankie’s arrogant smirk vanished instantly. “You can’t do that! Those shipments belong to overseas partners—”
“I own the port, Frankie,” I interrupted, standing up slowly. “I own the zoning permits, the harbor police, and the concrete beneath your boss’s feet. If I want to turn his entire logistics empire into a parking lot before dinner, I don't need a court order. I just need a reason.”
Frankie’s hand twitched toward his coat pocket.
Before his fingers even brushed the leather holster, the door behind him swung open.
Salvatore stepped inside, pressing the cold barrel of a suppressed Sig Sauer directly against the base of Frankie’s skull.
Frankie froze, his breath catching in his throat.
“Drop your piece on the carpet, Frankie,” Salvatore murmured, his voice like gravel grinding in a cement mixer.
With trembling fingers, Frankie unclipped his pistol and let it slide onto the plush wool rug.
I walked around the desk, stopping two feet away from him. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.
“You tell Viktor Vance three things for me,” I said softly, staring straight into his terrified eyes.
“W-what things?” Frankie stammered.
“First: the little girl and her mother are under my direct, unbreakable protection. Anyone who looks at them sideways dies.”
“O-okay—”
“Second: the men he sent to the hospital last night are currently enjoying a very long vacation at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”
Frankie swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.
“And third?”
“Tell Viktor that I’m coming for his docks, his warehouses, and his entire operation. And when I find out which of his animals put that little girl’s mother in a hospital bed... I’m going to personally peel the skin off his back.”
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I gave a slight nod to Salvatore.
“Get him out of my sight,” I ordered. “And make sure he walks all the way back to the south docks without his shoes. Let him feel what the snow is like when nobody is saving him.”
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