Chapter 2 - The Dossier on Darren Cole
At 12:15 AM, Margaret Hart left the Calder mansion in a black executive town car driven by one of Vincent’s personal drivers. Vincent had insisted on the ride, claiming it was too late for her to walk to her apartment or take a cab. Maggie had been too exhausted and shaken to argue.
The moment the taillights of the car disappeared past the iron gates, Vincent turned on his heel and walked toward the basement level of the mansion.
Behind a concealed door disguised as a wood-paneled utility closet lay Vincent’s private operational command center. It was a windowless, air-conditioned room filled with secure servers, encrypted satellite monitors, and high-frequency communication rigs.
Sitting behind a desk covered in dual monitors was Frank Vance—a fifty-two-year-old former Marine Recon operative with a scarred jaw, short-cropped iron-gray hair, and eyes that had seen every dark corner of the Eastern Seaboard. Frank had been Vincent’s head of security and chief Enforcer for fifteen years.
"Frank," Vincent said, closing the heavy steel door behind him.
Frank looked up from his screens, picking up a pen. "Boss. I saw Miss Hart leave. She looked like she’d seen a ghost."
"She’s being abused," Vincent said without preamble. "I want a full dossier on a man named Darren Cole. I want his current address, his employment history, his financial debts, his associates, and his daily routine. I want it within the hour."
Frank didn't ask questions. He didn't express surprise. In their world, emotional outbursts were a waste of tactical time. His fingers began flying across his mechanical keyboard, the loud clicking filling the room.
"Darren Cole," Frank muttered, running the name through their private local databases. "Spelling?"
"Standard," Vincent replied, walking over to the wall monitor. "He’s her ex-boyfriend or current partner. She lives in an apartment in South Philadelphia, near Tasker Street."
Within fourteen minutes, the first file hit Frank’s main screen.
"Got him," Frank said, leaning back in his leather chair. "Darren James Cole. Thirty-four years old. Works as a mid-level shift manager at a commercial auto body shop in South Philly. Drives a 2018 black Dodge Charger. No prior military service. Two arrests for misdemeanor assault—one in 2021, one in 2023—both dismissed when the victims dropped charges."
Vincent stared at the digital mugshot that appeared on the screen. Darren Cole was a broad-shouldered man with a thick neck, thin sandy hair, and a heavy, arrogant jaw. His eyes in the police photo held the dull, cruel confidence of a man who believed he was untouchable because he only targeted people smaller than himself.
"What else?" Vincent asked, his voice dropping into a register that made Frank glance up.
"He owes forty grand to a loan shark operating out of a sports bar in South Philly—Tommy 'Nails' Riga," Frank reported, scanning financial flags. "Cole’s a heavy gambler. Pays his debts late. He’s been living off and on at Maggie’s apartment on Tasker Street for the last eighteen months, though her name is the only one on the lease."
"He uses her," Vincent said. "He takes her money, lives in her home, and beats her when his bets fail."
"Looks like it," Frank said quietly. "Miss Hart filed a temporary restraining order six months ago, but she let it lapse. Typical cycle of domestic intimidation."
Vincent walked up to the screen, standing inches away from the photograph of Darren Cole’s face.
In Vincent’s world, violence was a tool of commerce. It was structured, purposeful, and executed with cold precision to maintain order, protect territories, or enforce contracts. He viewed men who used violence against women and children not merely with moral disgust, but with profound professional contempt. They were weak, chaotic animals who lacked the discipline to control their own impulses.
"Where is he right now?" Vincent asked.
Frank checked a real-time cellular hit map tapping into local tower ping logs. "His phone is pinging at O’Leary’s Pub on 9th Street. He’s been there since nine o'clock drinking and playing digital poker."
Vincent checked his gold wrist watch. It was 1:02 AM.
"Call Paulie and Marcus," Vincent said softly. "Tell them to bring the heavy van. We are going to South Philadelphia."
Frank looked at Vincent, his brow furrowing slightly. "Boss... do you want us to handle this? You don't usually go out on routine enforcement."
May you like
Vincent adjusted the cuffs of his white dress shirt, sliding his heavy gold signet ring onto his right pinky finger.
"This isn't routine enforcement, Frank," Vincent said. "This man touched the woman who brought my son back to life. I am going to handle this personally."
