Chapter 4 - The Shadows of Detroit
Down in the subterranean parking garage beneath Blackwood Tower, four black armored SUVs sat idling with dark, rhythmic rumbles. A dozen men in unbadged tactical gear stood in silence, checking weapons and securing radios.
Julian descended the stairs, his dark winter coat back on. Marcus walked beside him, holding a encrypted tablet showing floor plans and phone tracking data.
"What did the sweep team find at the apartment?" Julian asked, his voice clipping like steel shears.
"No body," Marcus reported. "Blood on the kitchen floor, but not a fatal volume. Signs of a struggle. The door was forced with military-grade gear, not local junkies. The syndicate that took over the old Moretti territory — the ones calling themselves the Syndicate of the River — they’ve been expanding into extortion."
"Why Naomi?" Julian asked, stepping into the back seat of the primary SUV. "She was a waitress. She stepped away from the clubs six years ago."
Marcus climbed into the front seat and turned around. "Because of her late husband, Pearl's father. Before he abandoned them, he was a accountant for the city port authorities. Word on the street is he stole an encrypted ledger detailing the Syndicate's human trafficking and shipping routes. He hid it before he vanished. The Syndicate thinks Naomi had it."
Julian’s eyes narrowed into slits of dangerous light. "They threatened a mother in front of her children for a ledger?"
"They didn't just threaten her, boss. They took her to the Old Iron Works by the river. That's Victor Moretti’s nephew running that crew now. Leo Moretti."
The name hung in the cold air of the vehicle like poison. The surviving remnant of the family that had taken Clara seven years ago.
"Leo thinks he's invisible because he operates out of the abandoned industrial district," Marcus added. "He thinks you've gone soft in your tower, Julian. He thinks you're just an investor now."
Julian looked out the tinted window as the heavy iron gates of the garage lifted, revealing the snow-choked streets of Detroit. The storm had reached its peak; whiteouts blurred the streetlights into faint, ghostly halos.
"Let him keep thinking that for another fifteen minutes," Julian said softly. He pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket, opened it, and looked at the inscription inside: Bring them home, Julian. "Tell the perimeter teams to seal the Iron Works. No phone calls out. No ambulances in."
"Understood, sir," Marcus said, pulling out his radio. "And the children?"
"If anything happens to me tonight," Julian said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "the trust funds kick in automatically. Pearl and Jonah get everything. The tower, the accounts, the protection detail. But nothing is going to happen to me tonight, Marcus."
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"Why are you so sure?"
Julian closed the cigarette case with a sharp metallic snap. "Because for seven years, I've been waiting for a reason to burn this city down. And tonight, a seven-year-old girl gave me one."
