Chapter 12 - Rust in the Gears
The morning sun did little to warm the cold, industrial concrete of the Calumet Harbor. Slip 4 was a ghost town of rusted cranes and abandoned corrugated iron warehouses, a stark contrast to the manicured lawns of Lake Forest. The air here was thick with the smell of diesel, coal dust, and dead fish from the river.
Vincent sat in the passenger seat of the armored SUV, his hands resting on his walnut cane. Rocco was at the wheel, his eyes constantly scanning the mirrors.
"We shouldn't have brought her, Vincent," Rocco muttered, nodding toward the back seat where Tessa was reviewing a digital map of the harbor on her tablet.
"Tessa goes where I go, Rocco," Vincent said flatly. "She built the shield that protects this company. If someone is trying to pierce it, she needs to see where the blow is coming from."
Tessa looked up from her screen, her voice calm and steady. "According to the maritime registry, Slip 4 was sold six months ago—right around the time we announced our transition to legitimate logistics. The buyer was a shell corporation registered in Delaware called Ferrum Holdings."
"Ferrum," Vincent repeated, the Latin word for iron tasting like copper in his mouth. "An old name. My father used to deal with a family in Detroit who used that moniker. The Vances."
"Silas Vance," Rocco said, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "He’s the youngest son. A brutal bastard who made his bones in the Canadian border smuggling routes. He’s been trying to push south into Chicago for three years, but we always kept the door shut."
"Now the door is unlocked," Vincent said.
Rocco parked the SUV fifty yards from the entrance of the warehouse at Slip 4. The massive sliding iron doors were slightly ajar, a narrow band of darkness visible inside.
Vincent adjusted his coat, grabbed his cane, and stepped out into the damp harbor air. His leg, though stronger now, still protested against the cold, but he didn't let the slight limp show in his stride. Tessa stepped out beside him, her long coat wrapped tight against the wind.
They walked toward the open warehouse door, Rocco following closely behind, his hand resting discreetly inside his jacket where his sidearm was holstered.
Inside, the warehouse was a cavern of rusted girders and broken crates. Light streamed through the cracked skylights, illuminating millions of dust motes dancing in the air. In the center of the vast concrete floor sat a single wooden chair.
Sitting in the chair, casually tossing a small iron coin into the air and catching it, was a young man. He wore an expensive, tailored Italian suit that looked entirely out of place in the industrial decay. His hair was slicked back, and his eyes had the restless, manic energy of a wolf that had spent too long in a cage.
"Vincent Corvino," the young man called out, his voice echoing off the corrugated walls. "The retired king. I must say, the cane is a nice touch. Gives you a statesmanlike quality."
"Silas Vance," Vincent said, stopping ten feet from the chair. He didn't raise his voice, but the authority in it filled the empty warehouse, instantly reclaiming his territory. "You’re a long way from Detroit."
"Detroit is small, Vincent," Silas said, standing up and spreading his arms wide. "And Chicago... well, Chicago is beautiful. Especially now that the big, bad Corvino family has decided to trade their guns for grocery trucks."
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"Our business is our own, Silas," Tessa said, stepping forward. Her voice was cool, precise, and entirely devoid of fear. "If you have a grievance with our corporate transition, you can file it through our legal counsel. If you trespass on our properties again, the federal authorities will be the ones answering your calls."
Silas looked at Tessa, his eyes narrowing with a dark, predatory curiosity. "Ah, the Ice Queen herself. The girl who tamed the beast. You’re very clever, Tessa. But laws are only as good as the men who enforce them. And out here, on the water... the law is very, very quiet."
