Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm
The rain began to fall as the armored black SUV pulled up along the curb of 24th Street. The neighborhood was dilapidated, lined with cracked pavements, rusted fire escapes, and aging brick apartment buildings. It stood in stark, ugly contrast to the pristine splendor of the Reyes estate.
Damian stepped out of the vehicle, Marcus trailing a half-step behind him, while two armed guards posted themselves at the entrance of the building.
They ascended the narrow, dimly lit staircase to the third floor, stopping before Apartment 3B. The wooden door was scuffed, the cheap lock barely holding the frame together. Inside, the muffled sound of a television blared.
Damian didn't bother knocking. He looked at Marcus, who raised a heavy boot and kicked the door right at the latch.
The frame splintered instantly, and the door swung wide with a deafening bang.
Inside, the apartment smelled of stale beer, old tobacco, and rot. Hector Vane scrambled off a stained leather couch, dropping a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey onto the carpet. He reached frantically toward his waistband, his face pale with sudden shock.
"What the hell—who the fuck are you?" Hector yelled, his hand fumbling for a revolver tucked into his belt.
Before Hector could clear leather, Marcus crossed the room like a freight train, slamming his fist into Hector’s chest. The air exploded from Hector’s lungs as he crashed to the floor, his gun skittering across the linoleum tiles into Damian’s path.
Damian casually stepped on the revolver, sliding it out of reach with the toe of his hand-crafted Italian leather shoe. He looked down at the groaning man with a disgust usually reserved for vermin.
"Hector Vane," Damian said, his voice terrifyingly quiet amid the chaos.
Hector spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, glaring up at Damian through swollen eyes. "Do you know who I am? You can't just break into my house! I'll call the cops!"
"Call them," Damian offered calmly, stepping further into the room and glancing around. The apartment was littered with overturned furniture, broken glass, and torn clothing—mute evidence of the terror Elena endured every evening when she returned from work.
Damian knelt, grabbing Hector by his collar and pulling him up until their faces were mere inches apart.
"I am Damian Reyes," he whispered.
The name hit Hector like a physical blow. The arrogance vanished from the man's eyes, replaced instantly by sheer, cold panic. Everyone in Chicago knew the Reyes name. To cross Damian Reyes was to invite a swift, silent death.
"M-Mr. Reyes," Hector stuttered, his knees shaking so violently he could barely keep his balance. "I... I don't owe you any money! I swear! I don't touch your business!"
"You touch Elena Cruz," Damian said, his grip tightening around Hector’s neck until the man gasped for air. "She works for me. Every bruise you put on her skin is a mark you left on my household."
"She’s my wife!" Hector pleaded, tears of fear welling in his eyes. "It's family business! A man has a right to discipline his—"
Damian slammed Hector’s head hard against the floorboards. The crack echoed sharply through the apartment.
"She is under my protection," Damian barked, his calm demeanor fracturing into raw, lethal authority. "If you ever speak her name again, if you ever look in her direction, if you ever step onto the same street she walks on, I will not send you to the police. I will bury you so deep under the concrete of the Chicago docks that no one will ever find your teeth."
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Damian stood up, dusting off his lapels. He looked down at Marcus.
"Clean this place out. Take his keys, his phone, and every document related to Elena. Then make sure Mr. Vane understands that he is leaving Chicago by sunset tonight. If he stays, kill him."
