Chapter 8 - The Ghost of Fifth AvenueThe private underground bunker beneath the abandoned meatpacking plant on the Hudson River smelled of rust, damp concrete, and fear.
Marcus Vance sat in a leather armchair at the head of a long steel table, swirling a glass of amber scotch. His gray hair was slicked back, his expensive suit wrinkled from a long night of waiting for news that never came.
The heavy steel doors at the end of the bunker didn't just open; they were blown off their hydraulic hinges with a deafening boom.
Marcus bolted out of his chair, spilling his scotch. “What in God’s name—?”
Through the billowing smoke and pulverized concrete dust walked Vincent Costello.
His charcoal suit was torn at the shoulder, his white shirt stained with soot and a few drops of enemy blood, but he walked with the unyielding gravity of an executioner. Behind him, Leo stood in the doorway, blocking every possible exit with a heavy riot shotgun resting casually across his chest.
Marcus swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure as he reached for the revolver resting on the table.
“Vincenzo,” Marcus forced a thin, trembling smile. “I must admit, I didn't expect you to drop by personally. I assume my men missed—”
Vincent didn't answer. He crossed the room in three long strides, slammed his palm down onto the steel table with enough force to dent the metal, and stared down at the older mob boss.
“You sent men into my home,” Vincent said. His voice was barely a whisper, yet it echoed off the concrete walls like thunder. “You brought violence to my doorstep. You endangered my wife.”
“It’s just business, Vincent!” Marcus shouted, his voice cracking slightly under the pressure of those terrifying gray eyes. “You took my shipments—!”
“Business ended the second you crossed the line,” Vincent interrupted.
Before Marcus could touch his gun, Vincent grabbed him by the lapels of his suit, hoisted the aging boss completely off his feet, and slammed him backward against the damp concrete wall. The breath exploded from Marcus’s lungs in a ragged gasp.
“You think you own this city, Marcus?” Vincent leaned in close, his voice dripping with venom. “You’re just a ghost haunting my streets. And tonight, I’m putting you to rest.”
“Wait!” Marcus choked out, his hands clawing at Vincent’s wrists. “I have information! I know who tipped Derek off! I know who gave him your wife’s location!”
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Vincent paused, his fist frozen mid-air. The mention of Derek—the pathetic thug from the café—sent a new, sharper current of electricity through the room.
“Talk,” Vincent commanded.
