Chapter 5 - The Meatpacking District
The Lincoln pulled into a desolate gravel yard surrounded by corrugated iron warehouses near Pier 17.
The air smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and cold grease. In the center of the yard stood an abandoned cold-storage facility, its yellow floodlights casting long, distorted shadows across the wet gravel.
Marco opened Damian’s door, holding a large black umbrella over his head as he stepped out into the pouring rain. Damian turned and held out his hand to Tessa.
She hesitated for a second, then placed her small, cold hand in his. His grip was firm, warm, and utterly unshakeable.
They walked into the warehouse through a side security door.
Inside, the temperature plunged. The concrete floor was slick with condensation. Huge steel hooks hung from overhead tracks, swaying slightly in the draft created by the open loading bays.
In the center of the room, illuminated by a single overhead bulb hanging from a black wire, sat Trent Miller.
He was tied to a heavy wooden chair with thick yellow nylon rope. His mouth was taped shut with silver duct tape. He wore his familiar leather jacket, but it was torn at the shoulder, and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and rain.
Standing beside him were two large men in dark raincoats—Mikey 'The Brick' Vane and a young enforcer Tessa had never seen before.
When the heavy door closed, Trent raised his head frantically. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and bloodshot with blind panic.
He saw Damian Rossy first, and his body twitched against the ropes. But when his gaze shifted to Tessa standing beside the mafia chief, his eyes nearly bulged out of his head.
He began to thrash against his bindings, making muffled, desperate sounds behind the duct tape.
Damian walked over slowly, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the concrete floor. He stopped three feet in front of the chair.
“Remove the tape,” Damian instructed quietly.
Mikey reached out, grabbed the edge of the silver tape, and ripped it off in one swift motion.
Trent screamed, spitting blood and saliva onto the cold floor. “Tessa! Tessa, what the hell is this?! Tell these crazy bastards to let me go! What did you do? What did you tell them?!”
Tessa did not move. She stood beside Damian, her hands buried deep inside the pockets of her wool coat. The throb in her neck seemed to dull, replaced by an overwhelming, strange stillness.
Damian stepped closer, looking down at Trent with absolute disgust.
“You have a loud voice for a man who owes forty-two thousand dollars to my company,” Damian said calmly.
Trent gasped for air, his chest heaving. “Mr. Rossy—listen to me! It’s a mistake! I’m getting the money! Tessa has it—she promised me she’d pull it from her savings by Friday! Ask her! She’ll tell you!”
Damian slowly turned his head to look at Tessa. “Is this true, Tessa? Did you promise to give him forty-two thousand dollars?”
“I didn't promise,” Tessa said, her voice echoing clearly off the steel walls of the warehouse. “He threatened to kill me if I didn't.”
Trent’s face turned gray. “Tessa, shut up! Shut your mouth! Don't lie to him!”
Before Trent could finish the sentence, Marco stepped forward and struck him across the face with the flat of his heavy hand. The impact cracked through the room like a gunshot, snapping Trent’s head to the side.
“You do not speak to Miss Hartley like that,” Marco said coldly.
Trent sobbed, a string of bloody saliva trailing from his lip down to his chin. “Please... please, Mr. Rossy. I’m sorry. I didn't know she was working for you like that! I swear to God, I’ll never touch her again! Just let me pay off the debt! Give me two weeks!”
Damian reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a fountain pen and a small folded piece of paper.
“The debt is settled,” Damian said flatly.
Trent blinked through his tears, confused. “What?”
“Miss Hartley’s services to my organization are worth considerably more than forty-two thousand dollars,” Damian explained, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “I have personally cleared your balance with Mikey’s book. As of five minutes ago, you do not owe my syndicate a single cent.”
Trent let out a ragged, hysterical sigh of relief. “Oh, God... thank you, Mr. Rossy. Thank you! I knew you were a reasonable man—”
“I am not finished,” Damian interrupted softly.
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The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Your financial debt to my company is paid,” Damian continued, leaning down until his dark eyes were level with Trent’s frantic gaze. “Now we must discuss your personal debt to me.”
