Chapter 11 - The Inheritance of Smoke
The fire marshal’s report listed the cause of the third-floor study blaze as an “electrical malfunction in the vintage wall sconces.” Gabriel read the typed summary twice while sitting in his temporary office on the twentieth floor of Rowan Freight Tower, a cup of black coffee cooling beside his elbow.
There was no mention of Viktor Volkov’s name, nor the suppressed submachine gun recovered beneath the charred remains of the Persian rug. In the high-stakes theater of Chicago’s corporate underworld, federal agencies preferred quiet administrative burials to public turf wars. Viktor had been quietly transferred to a federal penitentiary in Florence, Colorado, under an alias, his assets frozen and redistributed among maritime restitution funds.
Yet, cleaning out a syndicate’s shadow footprint left jagged edges.
The intercom on Gabriel’s desk buzzed twice.
“Mr. Rowan,” Hannah’s voice came through, crisp and steady. “There’s a courier downstairs. Refuses to give his name to security. He says he has a package addressed specifically to you, marked with a blue enamel dot.”
Gabriel froze, his coffee mug hovering inches from his mouth. He set it down slowly, the liquid sloshing against the rim.
“Send him away, Hannah,” Gabriel said sharply. “Call the private detail on floor four. Do not let him step foot inside the elevator.”
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“I already tried, sir,” Hannah replied, a rare note of genuine anxiety tightening her voice. “He didn’t bring a package. He left a girl. About Lucy’s age. She’s standing at the front reception desk right now, and she’s holding your spare office key.”
Gabriel was out of his chair before the sentence finished.
