Chapter 8 - The Price of Protection
By sunrise, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets of West Randolph slick and shining under a pale, watery Chicago dawn.
Mara hadn't slept. She had spent the rest of the night sitting at the cutting table, the fifty-thousand-dollar check sitting untouched beside her ledger. She had stared at the numbers until they blurred, turning over every word Adrian had spoken in her head like a coin in a pocket.
He hadn't asked for a favor in return. Not yet. But in the underworld Adrian Vale controlled, nothing was free. Protection carried a price, and she knew that the moment Tommy Vance or one of his associates crawled back out of the woodwork, they wouldn't just be looking for a local merchant to shake down—they would be looking to send a message to the freight king’s new favorite tailor.
At 8:00 AM sharp, the front bell chimed.
Mara looked up from her ledger, expecting Bruno or one of Adrian’s couriers. Instead, an older man stood in the doorway—thin, wearing a worn gray overcoat and holding a battered leather briefcase.
“Miss Whitcomb?” the man asked, his voice shaking slightly.
“Yes?” Mara stood up, her hand instinctively resting near the cutting shears.
“My name is Harold Vance. Tommy’s uncle.”
Mara froze. The name hung in the air like a foul smell. She knew who Harold Vance was—or at least, she knew his reputation. He was the aging head of the independent union docks, a man who had lost most of his influence when Graves Logistics took over the lakefront terminals, but who still commanded enough loyal thugs to make life miserable for anyone operating south of Madison Street.
“Your nephew was here yesterday making threats,” Mara said, keeping her voice level.
Harold held up a trembling hand, stepping cautiously inside as if he expected a trap. “I know what Tommy did. And I know what happened to him in the alley last night.” He swallowed hard, his rheumy eyes darting toward the front window before looking back at her. “I didn't come here to start trouble, Miss Whitcomb. I came to warn you.”
Mara stepped around the cutting table. “Warn me about what?”
“About Adrian Vale,” Harold said, his voice dropping to a frightened whisper. “You think he bought this building out of the goodness of his heart? You think a man who controls half the freight yards in Illinois cares about a family tailor shop?”
“He cares about his investments,” Mara replied coldly.
“He cares about control,” Harold corrected, stepping closer. “Graves Logistics is expanding into the old garment district warehouses next block over. He’s clearing the board, Miss Whitcomb. Every building, every lease, every business on this strip is being bought up or forced out. You’re not his tailor. You’re his anchor in a neighborhood he’s about to swallow whole.”
Mara stared at the old man, her blood running cold. Every word hit with the precision of a dropped hammer.
May you like
“And if I refuse to play?” she asked quietly.
Harold gave a grim, humorless smile. “Then you find out why they call him the prince of Graves Logistics. Because men like Adrian don't just buy what they want—they bury everything else.”
