Chapter 14 - The Return of the Overcoat
The Obsidian Club was locked down tighter than a federal reserve bank. Private security guards in tactical gear flanked the velvet curtains, checking credentials against a digital manifest that didn't exist anywhere in municipal databases.
Inside the VIP lounge, Victor Vance sat at the center of a large mahogany table, surrounded by half a dozen scarred enforcers and jittery syndicate lieutenants.
"The old man thinks he can play god from a suburban kitchen," Victor laughed, swirling a glass of amber whiskey as he addressed the room. "The Ghost hasn't fired a shot in two decades. He traded his iron for a school lunchbox. When my men pay a little visit to his daughter's campus tomorrow, Daniel Walker will crawl out of his hole and beg us to take the keys back."
A heavy, unnatural silence swept through the lounge.
The ambient club music cut out entirely, replaced by a low, rhythmic hum echoing through the building's main audio system. Every television screen mounted on the mahogany walls flickered simultaneously, flashing a single, solid image: a blank vector silhouette of a ghost against a blood-red backdrop.
Victor slammed his glass down, the crystal cracking against the wood. "What the hell is this? Cut the power!"
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The heavy velvet entrance curtain parted with a slow, deliberate sweep.
I stepped into the warm amber light. I wore the dark wool overcoat I hadn't worn since the night Lily was born. My hands were tucked casually into my pockets, and my face carried the absolute, terrifying stillness of a winter storm.
