Chapter 12 - THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR
The iron door didn't blow off its hinges this time; it swung open with a slow, deliberate screech that echoed through the subterranean chamber.
Dominic didn't reach for a gun. He sat calmly in his chair, hands folded over the ledger, while Maren melted back into the deep shadows beside the steel shelves.
A lone figure stepped into the circle of light. He wore an immaculate charcoal overcoat, a silk scarf tucked neatly at his throat, and carried a silver-headed cane. His hair was iron-gray, combed straight back, and his face bore the unmistakable aristocratic lines of old money—the kind of man who didn't launder drug cash through dirty docks, but rather through international banking houses.
"Dominic Shaw," the man said, his voice smooth as polished glass. "I must admit, reports of your retirement were greatly exaggerated. Though, I suppose legends die hard in this city."
"And you are?" Dominic asked, his tone flat, devoid of surprise.
"Victor Vance," the man replied, stepping closer.
May you like
Dominic’s eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter. "Ronan and Thomas had an uncle they didn't like to talk about. The one who was exiled to Zurich twenty years ago for stealing from the family fund."
"Exiled is such a crude word," Victor smiled, leaning slightly on his cane. "Let’s call it a strategic relocation. I built something far larger than dockside smuggling while you and my dimwitted nephews were playing turf wars in the rain. But now, your little philanthropic foundation has frozen three of my primary asset accounts. That, Dominic, is an expensive mistake."
