Chapter 2 - The Red Hook Abattoir
The darkness inside the old meatpacking facility was freezing and thick with the stench of stagnant grease and brine.
Meline Foster sat bound to a rusted cast-iron chair, her wrists tied behind the backrest with coarse nylon rope that bit viciously into her raw skin.
A sharp, throbbing pain flared across her left temple where the butt of a revolver had struck her twenty minutes earlier.
Warm blood had trickled down the side of her cheek, drying into a tight, stiff crust near her jawline.
Her linen blouse was torn at the shoulder, revealing pale skin mottled with angry purple bruises from where Sullivan's thugs had shoved her into the van.
Across the concrete floor, Victor Sullivan paced back and forth, a burning cigarette clenched between his yellowed teeth.
"Where did your brother go, Meline?" Sullivan demanded, tossing a cloud of gray smoke toward the high corrugated ceiling.
"I told you," Meline answered, her voice raspy, fighting through the dizziness in her skull. "I haven't seen Thomas in three weeks. He came to my shop to borrow money, and I told him to leave."
Sullivan stopped, chuckling with a harsh, raspy rattle that sent a chill straight down her spine.
"Half a million dollars isn't a family squabble, sweetheart," Sullivan said, stepping closer until the toe of his leather shoe bumped against her tied ankle.
"Thomas took markers from my tables in Atlantic City. He swore his sister had wealthy private clients who would settle the bill if things went south."
"I restore seventeenth-century paintings," Meline spat out, lifting her chin despite the agony pounding behind her eyes.
"I don't bankroll deadbeat gamblers."
Sullivan reached out with a heavy, greasy hand, grabbing her jaw in a bruising grip that forced her head back.
"Don't get cute with me, girl. One of your clients drives a Maybach with tinted glass and leaves private security idling across your street."
Meline’s breath caught in her throat.
Gabriel.
She had noticed the black sedans parked outside her studio over the past two months.
She had thought Gabriel Rossi was simply an eccentric, wealthy collector with an overprotective corporate security detail.
She had never asked about the scars on his knuckles or the way entire restaurants went silent when he walked through the door.
To her, he was just the quiet, intense man who brought her black coffee without sugar and sat for hours watching her restore a portrait with patient, tender eyes.
"He doesn't care about me," Meline lied, staring directly into Sullivan’s bloodshot eyes. "He was a customer. He's probably forgotten what my shop looks like."
Before Sullivan could reply, the heavy exterior steel doors of the warehouse blew inward with an ear-shattering concussive blast.
The shockwave knocked two of Sullivan's guards off their feet, sending concrete dust and smoke billowing across the floor.
Through the haze stepped Gabriel Rossi.
He didn't take cover.
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He didn't duck.
He walked into the line of fire like an ancient god of vengeance, a heavy semi-automatic in his right hand, his eyes burning with an unholy, terrifying fire.
