Chapter 2 - The Meat Locker Ledger
The rain on Friday morning did not fall; it blew sideways off Lake Michigan, cold enough to turn the grease on the alley pavement into a white, slick sludge.
Inside the West Side meatpacking office, the humidity was high, thick with the iron smell of hanging beef carcasses and the chemical sharp of fresh bleach. Dom Russo was pacing the concrete floor, his heavy leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the drains.
"It's a setup, Leo," Dom growled, slamming a thick palm onto the walnut desk. "Marcus Voss doesn't ask for a private sit-down at the Marlowe unless he's got six rifles behind the curtains. He's bleeding on the docks, his union bribes are getting seized by the feds, and he needs your transit routes. He's desperate."
Leo sat behind the desk, a unlit cigar tucked into the corner of his mouth. He looked at Quinn, who was standing by the industrial freezer door, inspecting the latch with the quiet curiosity of a locksmith.
"What do you think, Quinn?" Leo asked.
Dom scoffed loudly. "Why the hell are you asking the driver?"
Quinn didn't look back. She touched the cold iron bolt of the door. "If Marcus Voss wanted to kill you, he wouldn't use the Marlowe Hotel. Too many exits. Too many rich people with lawyers who call the police before the first shell hits the carpet. He’d do it here. Or in your driveway."
"So you think it's a real meeting?" Leo pressed.
"No," Quinn said, turning around slowly. Her hair was damp from the walk in from the alley, sticking in dark strands to her temples. "I think he wants to see if you're still afraid of Tommy’s blood on your seat."
The room went thick and still.
Dom stepped toward her, his face turning the color of a fresh bruise. "You shut your mouth, girl. You don't speak Tommy's name in this room."
Quinn met his gaze without a flinch. "Tommy took three rounds because he stood in front of a open door like a target at a carnival. He was big. Big things are easy to hit. If you want Mr. Mercer to live through the winter, stop sending him men who take up three feet of space."
"You little—" Dom raised a finger, but Leo’s hand slammed onto the desk, the heavy thud cutting off the room's air.
"Enough," Leo said. His voice was dangerously low, the storm behind his right eye gathering into dark, heavy clouds. "Dom, you get the cars ready. Four men in the chase SUV. Two on the street."
"And her?" Dom demanded, pointing a thick thumb at Quinn.
"She drives the Lincoln," Leo said. He leaned forward, his dark eyes locked onto Quinn’s small, pale face. "And she carries Tommy's piece."
Dom gasped. "The Sig Sauer? Boss, that frame is too heavy for her hands. She'll break her wrists if she shoots more than two rounds."
Quinn walked over to the desk. Without asking permission, she picked up the heavy silver Sig Sauer P226 that lay beside Leo’s ledger. It was a massive firearm, customized with a weighted barrel and steel grips. In her slender, scarred hands, it looked ridiculously large—like a child holding a heavy tool from a mechanic's shed.
She checked the chamber with a single, fluid flick of her thumb. She dropped the magazine, re-seated it with the heel of her palm, and let the slide snap forward with a sharp, mechanical clack.
She didn't glance at the sights. She simply held it at her waist, her grip loose, her posture entirely unbothered by the three pounds of steel.
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"The weight keeps the muzzle down," Quinn said flatly. She slid the weapon into the oversized interior pocket of her pea coat. It disappeared completely under the heavy dark wool.
Leo looked at her for three full seconds before standing up. "Let's go to the Marlowe."
