Chapter 4 - The Auto Shop on 4th StreetBy 9:00 PM, the rain storm over Chicago had turned into a heavy, freezing downpour that swept across the industrial district near the river.
The Vance Auto Restorations building on 4th Street sat at the end of a dark, dead-end alley. Through the large frosted-glass bay windows, warm amber light illuminated four high-end luxury vehicles sitting on hydraulic lifts.
Inside the garage, six men sat around a card table drinking whiskey, wearing leather jackets, playing poker.
At the head of the table sat Frank Vance—a fifty-two-year-old mob boss with a scarred jaw, a heavy gold chain around his neck, and a snub-nosed revolver resting flat on the green felt table beside his pile of chips.
"Dustin called an hour ago," one of his lieutenants spoke up, taking a sip of whiskey. "He said the girl's father was coming to the gym to make trouble."
Frank let out a low, gravelly laugh, tossing three hundred-dollar bills into the pot. "Let the old man show up. Briggs and his boys will break his legs and throw him in the river. That girl belongs to my nephew now. She'll learn to keep her mouth shut."
BOOM!
The heavy steel pedestrian door of the garage was blown off its hinges with a deafening, thunderous crash.
The heavy door flew fifteen feet across the concrete floor, crashing flat against the side of a vintage Cadillac, sending a shower of sparks into the air.
The six men jumped up from the card table, snatching their weapons from their shoulder holsters, chairs knocking over backward against the concrete.
Walking through the dark, rain-swept doorway, wearing my faded flannel shirt, my knuckles bruised and stained with dried blood, was me.
Frank Vance grabbed his snub-nosed revolver, pointing the barrel straight at my chest, his face contorted in a mixture of anger and confusion.
"Who the hell are you?!" Frank roared over the sound of the falling rain outside.
"I am Evelyn’s father," I spoke, my voice smooth, quiet, and carried with a terrifying, absolute authority that made the air in the garage turn to ice.
Frank stared at me, looking past my shoulders at the empty alley, realizing that I had walked into his stronghold completely alone.
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A cruel, arrogant smile touched Frank’s scarred face.
"You must have a death wish, old man," Frank sneered, cocking the hammer of his revolver. "You walked straight into my house. Boys... tear him apart."
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