Chapter 3 - Inside Warehouse 9
The second-floor office of Silas Vance smelled of stale cigars, cheap bourbon, and unwashed fear.
Dr. Elena Chen stood near the edge of a scarred mahogany desk, her hands trembling as she clutched a crumpled medical license renewal form against her chest. Her face was pale, bruised slightly along the jawline where one of Vance’s enforcers had roughed her up an hour ago, but her dark eyes burned with a fierce, protective defiance.
"I won't sign it, Silas," Elena said, her voice shaking but resolute. "You want me to certify illegal pharmaceutical shipments coming out of unregulated ports. If the federal authorities trace those drugs back to my credentials, I'll spend twenty years in a federal penitentiary."
Silas Vance—a thick-set, middle-aged man with slicked-back graying hair and an expensive silk suit that looked ridiculous in a rat-infested shipping terminal—let out a harsh, barking laugh. He took a slow drag from his cigar, blowing a cloud of blue smoke across the desk.
"Federal penitentiary? Dr. Chen, let me explain something to you about federal penitentiaries," Vance sneered, stepping closer and slamming his palm down on the desk. "You don't get to go to trial. If you don't sign this contract by midnight, my men will take you and that sniveling little brat of yours out to the East River, drop you in concrete overshoes, and nobody will ever find your bodies. Your signature buys your freedom. Refusal buys a shallow grave."
Elena swallowed hard, her eyes darting toward the heavy metal door of the office. She thought of Vicki. Where is she? she prayed silently. Did she get away? Did she find help?
"You're a monster, Silas," she whispered.
"I'm a businessman," Vance corrected, leaning over the desk and shoving a fountain pen toward her fingers. "Now sign the damn paper. My buyers are waiting for the clearance manifest."
Before Elena could force herself to speak, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the hallway outside the office door.
Vance frowned, straightening up. "What the hell was that? Miller? Smith? Did you let someone in?"
There was no answer from the hallway. Just a dull, heavy thud—the sound of a grown man collapsing unconscious against the drywall.
Vance’s hand dropped instinctively to the snub-nosed revolver resting inside an open drawer on his desk. He whipped the drawer open, his fingers wrapping around the grip just as the heavy oak door of the office swung inward with a slow, agonizing creak.
Silas Vance froze.
Standing in the doorway wasn't one of his guards. It was Calcio Benevventi.
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The crime lord stood tall and imposing in his dark overcoat, rain glistening on his broad shoulders. Behind him, Marco and Stephano stood like statues carved from granite, their weapons holstered with casual, terrifying ease. Calcio’s dark eyes swept across the room, taking in the bruised face of Dr. Chen, the unsigned contract on the desk, and the revolver trembling in Vance’s sweaty hand.
"Vance," Calcio said, his voice dropping into a register that made the air in the room feel instantly vacuum-sealed. "You're a long way from the financial district, Silas. And you're playing games on tables that don't belong to you."
