Chapter 6 - The Ghost from BerlinThe private dining room at the Hawthorne Grill had grown quiet as the evening rush wound down.
Lana Beckett stood by the newly installed smoked-glass window, looking out over the rain-slicked pavement of the courtyard. Her executive assistant, a sharp-eyed young woman named Maya, placed a secure satellite phone gently on the mahogany table.
"The encrypted ping just cleared through our Munich relay, Ms. Beckett," Maya reported, her voice hushed. "The call originated from a burner phone registered under a false alias in Kreuzberg. But the voice stress analysis matches our target profile with 99.4% accuracy."
Lana turned slowly away from the window, her expression hardening into a mask of cold concentration.
"Gavin?" she asked.
Maya shook her head. "Worse. It’s Viktor’s older brother, Heinrich Marlow. The one who was supposed to have died in a prison riot in Dusseldorf eight years ago."
The name hung in the air like a physical blow.
For years, syndicate rumors had whispered about Heinrich—the true architect of the Marlow family empire, a man far more ruthless, calculating, and bloodthirsty than Victor ever was. While Victor ruled the city with calculated business pragmatism and controlled force, Heinrich was known as an apocalyptic storm who left nothing behind but ash and silence.
Victor entered the room just as the phone began to vibrate softly against the polished wood.
He walked over, his expression unusually tense, and stared at the glowing screen displaying an incoming international call.
"He’s back," Victor said quietly, his voice dropping an octave. "I thought the BND had him buried under three feet of reinforced concrete in a black-site prison."
"Prisons are only as secure as the men guarding them," Lana said, walking over to the table and picking up the secure handset. She pressed the speakerphone button before Victor could stop her.
A heavy, gravelly voice echoed through the high-end speakers, crackling with static across the transatlantic fiber-optic lines.
"Hello, little brother," Heinrich's voice rasped, dripping with cruel amusement. "Did you really think a few corrupt prison guards and a forged death certificate could keep me out of the family business forever?"
Victor stepped closer to the phone, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Heinrich. You should have stayed in Germany."
"And miss your little corporate coronation?" Heinrich laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "I hear you’ve gone legitimate, Victor. Paru-ing around with fancy suits, dining in high-end restaurants, and letting a former waitress run your operational logistics. Have you grown soft in your old age?"
Lana didn't flinch. She leaned over the table, her voice cutting through the speaker with razor-sharp precision.
"The waitress you're talking about is the reason your brother isn't currently lying in a refrigerated meat truck," Lana said coldly. "And if you think you can waltz into our city with a burner phone and a ghost story, you clearly haven't checked who's managing the security protocols."
A sharp, momentary silence met her words on the other end of the line.
Then Heinrich chuckled again, though this time there was a chilling edge of genuine respect in his tone.
"Ah, the sharp-tongued little hostess," Heinrich murmured. "I wondered who was running the switchboard. Well, Ms. Beckett, enjoy your little penthouse and your fancy mahogany table while you can. Because unlike Victor, I don't negotiate with waitresses. And tomorrow night, I'm coming to claim what is rightfully mine—starting with the Hawthorne Grill."
Click.
The line went dead, leaving only a low, rhythmic dial tone humming in the quiet room.
Victor looked at Lana, his dark eyes shadowed with a sudden, profound worry. "Heinrich doesn't make empty threats, Lana. When he says he's coming for the Hawthorne, he brings an entire army of international ghosts who don't care about money, borders, or rules."
Lana reached down, picked up her gold fountain pen, and slid her tablet across the table toward Leo, who had just stepped back into the room.
"Leo," Lana commanded, her voice steady and absolute. "Cancel all commercial shipments for tomorrow. Double the perimeter guards at every warehouse, and pull up every architectural blueprint of the Hawthorne Grill's sub-basement infrastructure."
May you like
Leo nodded grimly. "You think he’s coming through the old service tunnels?"
"I know he is," Lana said, her eyes flashing with a cold, analytical brilliance. "Heinrich loves theater. He won't attack through the front gate like Reinhardt. He'll come from underneath."
