Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Rain
The pounding on the door stopped abruptly, replaced by the grating sound of a heavy boot scraping against the concrete step outside.
Mara didn't move toward the door. She reached beneath the cutting counter, her fingers wrapping around the cold, textured handle of the heavy-duty fabric shears her father had used since the Carter administration. They weren't a gun, but twelve inches of forged German steel could ruin a man’s evening if he tried to break through frosted glass.
“Mara! Open up, damn it, I know you’re in there!”
The voice came muffled through the wood and glass, rough and reeking of cheap whiskey and bad news.
Tommy Vance.
Not related to Adrian—at least, not by blood that anyone acknowledged—Tommy was a low-level enforcer who worked the docks for the independent unions, a man whose favorite pastime was leaning on small businesses for “protection fees.” Six months ago, Tommy had decided that Whitcomb & Daughter owed him a weekly tax for operating in his territory. Her father had chased him off with a steam iron; Tommy had been waiting for the old man to die so he could come back for the shop.
Mara stepped out from behind the counter, her grip tight on the heavy shears. She unlocked the deadbolt with a sharp click and pulled the door open just enough to block the gap with her shoulder.
Tommy stood in the rain, his leather jacket soaked through, his thin hair plastered to his forehead. He grinned, showing a chipped front tooth, but his eyes were bloodshot and frantic.
“Took you long enough, sweetheart,” Tommy slurred, taking a step forward. “Thought you locked up early. I need to talk to you about the monthly maintenance.”
“The shop is closed, Tommy,” Mara said, her voice hard and flat. “And we don't pay maintenance to street rats.”
Tommy’s smile vanished, replaced by a dark, ugly flash of temper. He slammed his palm against the doorframe, forcing it wider. “You’ve got some nerve talking to me like that. Your old man is in the dirt, and nobody’s coming to bail you out. Word on the dock is you’re behind on rent, you’re behind on suppliers, and you’re running out of time.”
“I said we’re closed.”
“And I said you’re going to listen!” Tommy lunged forward, his hand shooting out to grab the lapel of her sweater.
He didn't get the chance.
Out of the gray sheets of the Chicago rain, a large, dark figure materialized behind Tommy with terrifying silence. A massive hand descended like a steel trap onto the back of Tommy’s neck, crushing him forward against the brick exterior of the building before he could even blink.
Bruno didn't say a word. He simply drove Tommy’s face two inches closer to the wet brick, applying enough pressure to make the smaller man gasp in sudden, suffocating terror.
“The shop is closed,” Bruno said, his voice deep, flat, and completely devoid of human emotion.
Tommy’s legs buckled. “I—I was just talking to her! I didn't mean—get your hands off me, you son of a—!”
Bruno tightened his grip. A sickening crunch of cartilage echoed in the narrow doorway.
“Mr. Vale doesn't like people shouting at his tailor,” Bruno murmured, leaning down so his mouth was right next to Tommy’s ear. “Especially when they’re standing on property he currently owns.”
May you like
Mara stood frozen in the doorway, the heavy shears loose in her hand. She watched the massive enforcer pin a local union thug to the brick wall as if he weighed nothing at all. Her mind raced back to the check on the counter, the fifty thousand dollars, and the ominous words Adrian had left behind: Do not lose the lease.
Adrian hadn't just paid her back rent. He had bought the building.
