Chapter 5 - Graves Logistics
Twenty miles away, on the upper floors of the Graves Logistics tower overlooking the dark, choppy waters of Lake Michigan, the office was a monument to cold, functional power. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows framed the storm-tossed skyline, while inside, the air smelled of imported leather, black coffee, and old paper.
Adrian Vale stood by the window, swirling a finger of rye whiskey in a heavy crystal glass. His suit jacket was off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the dark, corded muscle of his forearms and the faded scar running down his left wrist from an old knife fight in the rail yards.
Bruno stepped out of the private elevator, his massive frame nearly filling the doorway. He wiped a drop of rain from his cheek with a large handkerchief.
“Handled?” Adrian asked without turning around.
“Tommy Vance won’t be bothering the girl again,” Bruno said evenly. “Or anyone else on West Randolph, for at least a month. His jaw’s wired shut.”
Adrian took a sip of the rye, letting the burn settle in his chest. His dark eyes narrowed as he watched the distant flash of lightning over the lake.
“Did she take the check?”
“Left it on the cutting table,” Bruno reported. “Along with the envelope. She didn't look happy about it, boss.”
A slow, humorless smile touched the corner of Adrian’s mouth. “She never is. If I had handed her a box of gold coins, she would have hit me with a steam iron.”
“She called the zoning office twenty minutes after we left,” Bruno added quietly.
Adrian stopped swirling his glass. He turned slowly, his dark gaze locking onto his bodyguard. “The zoning office?”
“Yeah. She’s pulling the property title history. She wants to know if you bought the building legally or if there was a loophole.”
For a second, the room was dead silent, save for the low rumble of thunder outside. Then Adrian let out a short, sharp laugh—a sound devoid of warmth, filled with an intense, dark amusement.
“She thinks I forged her signature,” he muttered, shaking his head. “The girl is twenty-nine years old, drowning in debt, and her first instinct when someone pays her rent is to investigate whether it’s a federal crime.”
“She’s got her father’s spine,” Bruno said. “Old Edwin wouldn't take a bribe from the union reps even when they threatened to burn his cutting tables down.”
Adrian set his glass down on the mahogany desk with a sharp clack. He reached for his black overcoat, slipping his arms into the sleeves with practiced ease.
“Get the car, Bruno,” Adrian said, his voice dropping into a cold, absolute command.
May you like
“Where are we going, boss?”
“Back to West Randolph,” Adrian replied, adjusting his collar in the glass reflection. “If my tailor wants to audit my real estate portfolio, I think I should be there to explain the math.”
