Chapter 2 - The Sound of Iron Engines
The morning sky was heavy, tinted with the dark violet of an ending storm. Twelve black SUVs formed a tight, silent convoy moving through the high-end residential hills of Oakridge. There were no sirens, no flashing lights, only the low rumble of forty-eight cylinders humming together like a restrained predator.
Julian Vale lived in a sprawling modern villa made of glass, steel, and arrogance. He had built it on credit, collateralized by modern art he didn't own and promises he couldn't keep.
When my convoy pulled onto his manicured driveway, the tires chewed up the white gravel. We parked in a semi-circle, completely blocking the wrought-iron gates and every escape route from his garage.
Marco stepped out first, holding an oversized umbrella over my head as I opened my door. Twenty guards in tailored dark suits took position behind us, moving with military precision.
Julian came to the front entrance wearing a silk robe, holding a glass of scotch. He looked annoyed, expecting a persistent delivery driver or an unannounced colleague. But when he saw the line of identical vehicles and the army standing on his lawn, his expression shifted from irritation to confusion, then to a flicker of dread.
“What is the meaning of this?” Julian shouted, taking a step back toward the threshold. “Who do you think you are? This is private property! I’m calling the police!”
I walked up the stone steps slowly, the heels of my polished leather shoes clicking against the wet slate.
“Call them,” I said quietly. “Tell them Leonardo Romano is at your door.”
Julian paused. The name did not mean high society to him—it meant the shadow economy that ran beneath the city's glittering surface. He had spent months trying to set up meetings with the Romano Group to secure financing for his failing maritime firm, never once realizing the man he petitioned was the same man whose sister he had beaten four hours prior.
“Leo?” Julian sneered, trying to recover his composure, though his hand shook enough to rattle the ice in his glass. “Clara’s brother? You brought a circus to my house because your foolish sister ran away after a marital disagreement?”
“A disagreement,” I repeated.
May you like
I reached out, grabbed the silk lapel of his robe, and yanked him forward. His scotch glass shattered on the ground. I slammed him back against the solid oak door, holding him by the throat just tightly enough to restrict his breath without cutting it off entirely.
“Now beg,” I said, looking into his pale blue eyes, “before I decide what mercy means.”
