Chapter 6 - The Debt Collection
Three days later, the snow had turned Chicago’s streets into slush, but inside the executive penthouse of Vane Logistics, the temperature was regulated to a crisp, comfortable seventy-two degrees.
Marcus Vane sat behind his massive mahogany desk, sipping a glass of rare scotch, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the skyline. He had spent the last seventy-two hours mobilizing his legal team, calling in every favor he owed in the municipal police department, and preparing a federal indictment that would quietly bury Solace and everyone associated with Alio Valente under twenty feet of federal red tape.
The private elevator chime dinged softly.
Vane didn't look up, assuming it was his chief legal counsel coming in with the final injunction papers. "Put them on the desk, Arthur. And make sure the press release for the health department raid is ready for the morning papers."
Heavy, slow footsteps crossed the Persian rug. Not the quick, nervous clicking of Arthur’s loafers.
Vane frowned, looking up from his desk.
The heavy oak doors of his office were pushed wide open. Standing in the entranceway was Alio Valente, wearing a charcoal wool overcoat, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. Walking calmly beside him, on four sturdy legs wrapped in clean white medical bandages, was Goliath.
The mastiff had gained ten pounds in three days under Dr. Miller's intensive care. His coat had been brushed clean, revealing a rich, fawn-colored sheen beneath the old scars, and his chest was broad and powerful enough to block a doorway.
Vane’s face drained of color. He stood up so fast his crystal scotch glass tipped over, spilling amber liquid across the expensive mahogany.
"You..." Vane whispered, his hand instinctively dropping toward the bottom drawer of his desk where he kept a nickel-plated revolver. "How are you... the Omega-Zero protocol—"
"Expired," Alio said, his voice cutting through the silence of the penthouse as he walked further into the room.
Goliath didn't growl. He didn't bare his teeth. He simply walked to the center of the Persian rug, sat down on his haunches, and fixed his dark, intelligent eyes directly on Marcus Vane. The sheer presence of the animal filled the room, making the multi-million-dollar office feel suddenly very small and very fragile.
"You're trespassing, Valente," Vane stammered, his fingers frantically pulling open the desk drawer. "I have private security on every floor. The building is locked down—"
"Your security guards are currently tied up in the loading dock," Tommy Keen said, stepping out from the shadows of the hallway with a suppressed pistol pointed lazily at the floor. "Lovely guys. We had a nice chat about pension plans."
Alio stopped six feet from Vane’s desk. He placed both hands flat on the polished wood, leaning forward slightly.
"Marcus," Alio said softly. "Do you know why I haven't touched your shipping lines in five years?"
Vane swallowed hard, his throat dry as bone. "W-Why?"
"Because I thought revenge was a waste of time. I thought letting people live with their empty houses and their quiet rooms was a better punishment than a bullet," Alio said. His eyes narrowed to a razor-thin slit. "Then you took a dog that had more loyalty in his little toe than you have in your entire corporate bloodline, and you threw him away like trash in an alley behind my restaurant."
"It was an experiment—" Vane started, raising a hand defensively.
"It was a mistake," Alio corrected.
Before Vane could grip the handle of his revolver, Goliath stood up with a low, bone-rattling rumble that shook the glass on the desk. The mastiff didn't lunge. He didn't need to. He simply took two massive steps forward, planting his heavy paws against the edge of Vane’s desk and leaning his weight forward until the wood groaned in protest.
Vane shrieked, stumbling backward into the floor-to-ceiling glass window, his hands trembling as he stared into the jaws of an animal he had tried to kill and failed to understand.
Alio reached into his coat, pulled out a thick manila envelope, and tossed it onto the center of the desk.
"What... what is this?" Vane breathed, his eyes darting between the envelope and Goliath’s unblinking gaze.
"That is the deed to every shipping warehouse you own in the North District, signed over to the Valente family trust," Alio said calmly. "Effective immediately. By sunrise, you are going to announce your retirement from Vane Logistics due to 'unforeseen health complications,' and you are going to catch a one-way flight to a country that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the United States."
"You can't do that!" Vane shouted, his voice cracking with panic. "I'll go to the federal prosecutor! I'll tell them everything about your syndicates!"
Alio turned toward the exit, buttoning his overcoat with slow, deliberate fingers.
"Tell them whatever you want, Marcus," Alio said over his shoulder, stopping at the doorway. "The federal prosecutors in this city answer to the people who own the docks. And as of five minutes ago, you don't own the docks anymore."
He whistled softly.
Goliath backed away from the desk, giving Vane one final, long look of supreme indifference, and trotted obediently to Alio’s side.
May you like
As the elevator doors opened to carry them back down to the lobby, Alio looked down at the massive dog walking beside him and gave the thick fur behind his ears a slow, deliberate scratch.
"Come on, Goliath," Alio said quietly. "Let's go home."
