Chapter 2 - The Beast at the Door"THERE YOU ARE, YOU LITTLE THIEF!"
A tall, greasy-haired man in a stained leather jacket stormed through the entrance, followed by two heavy-set thugs wearing dark work coats. He smelled strongly of cheap gin, stale tobacco, and sweat. His yellowed teeth were bared in a cruel, arrogant sneer as his bloodshot eyes locked onto Lily.
"Get up!" the man roared, taking a fast, aggressive step toward Table Four. "You took my money and ran out of the apartment! I'm taking the kid to Gary tonight, whether you like it or not!"
Lily let out a terrified shriek, scrambling back into her velvet chair, clutching six-month-old Leo against her chest so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Viktor and Leo moved instantly, stepping into the aisle, blocking the three men with their broad frames.
The greasy-haired man stopped, glaring at my bodyguards with belligerent, intoxicated confidence. "Move out of the way! I'm their legal uncle! Thomas Vance! I have temporary custody papers from the county!"
"He isn't our uncle!" Lily wept hysterically from behind my chair. "He stole our mother's insurance check and locked us in the closet for three days! Please, mister! Don't let him take Leo!"
I didn't jump up. I didn't draw a weapon.
I slowly picked up my linen napkin, wiped my fingers with deliberate precision, and set it flat beside my plate.
I stood up.
My six-foot-three frame rose beneath the chandelier light, casting a broad, suffocating shadow across the marble floorboards. The temperature inside the room plummeted into a freezing, apocalyptic cold that made even the two heavy-set thugs behind Thomas Vance freeze mid-breath.
Thomas Vance looked away from my bodyguards and finally locked eyes with me.
He recognized my face.
In Chicago, everyone recognized Dominic Moretti. His picture didn't appear in local tabloids, but his name was stamped across the private shipping terminals, the corporate logistics boards, and the city's private enforcement syndicates.
The arrogant, belligerent sneer on Thomas Vance’s face completely disintegrated. Every drop of color drained from his features, leaving his skin an ugly, mottled shade of grey.
"M-Moretti...?" Thomas stammered, taking two fast, clumsy steps backward, his knees knocking together in sudden, frantic panic. "Mr. Moretti... sir! There's... there's been a misunderstanding! These are my dead sister's kids! I was just taking them home—"
"You touched her wrist, Thomas," I spoke.
My baritone was quiet, calm, and laced with an absolute, unyielding mortality that made the pianist near the column drop his sheet music.
I stepped across the marble floor, stopping two inches from Thomas Vance.
"You locked an eleven-year-old girl and a six-month-old infant in a closet to steal their mother's insurance check," I continued, every word dropped into the silent room like a block of iron onto stone. "And then you walked into my private dining room to threaten them."
Thomas Vance collapsed flat onto his knees on the marble floorboards, holding his trembling hands up in desperate surrender. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Mr. Moretti! Take them! Keep them! I don't care! Just let me walk out of here!"
I looked down at him with a look of profound, chilling disdain.
"Viktor," I ordered flatly.
May you like
"Yes, Don Dominic?"
"Take Mr. Vance and his associates to the private holding suite beneath Pier 14," I commanded. "Call Federal Agent Vance. Tell him I have three human traffickers ready for processing."
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