Chapter 11 - The Inheritance of CrowsThe ink on the federal indictments was barely dry, but the vultures of Chicago’s underworld were already circling the carcass of Arthur Vance’s empire.
Inside the subterranean briefing room of a secure warehouse off the Calumet River, the air smelled of stale tobacco and ozone. A massive tactical map of the city covered the center table, dotted with red and black pins marking shipping docks, real estate holdings, and municipal accounts up for grabs.
Marco Bell slammed a thick dossier onto the wood.
"Vance's lieutenants are scrambling," Marco said, his voice sharp with adrenaline. "They’re trying to liquidate three cargo containers of medical-grade electronics currently sitting at Terminal 4. If those slip into the gray market, every black-market clinic from here to Milwaukee is going to stock up on stolen surgical gear."
Damen Moretti sat at the head of the table, his arms crossed over his chest, his gray eyes fixed on a single photograph pinned near the harbor district.
"Let them try," Damen said coldly. "Vance used those containers as collateral for his private loans. Legally, the port authority has already frozen them under federal asset seizure."
"Legally, yes," Elena Moretti chimed in, leaning against the steel shelving with her arms folded. "But Vance's nephew, Bobby Vance, isn't waiting for a judge. He’s got forty men armed with automatic rifles moving toward Terminal 4 right now. He wants the manifests, and he wants to burn the paper trail before federal auditors can cross-reference the serial numbers."
Damen stood up slowly, his fingers unbuttoning his suit jacket. "Then we give Bobby a welcome committee he won't forget."
"Damen," a soft voice interrupted from the doorway.
Everyone turned. Hannah stood in the threshold, wearing a dark utility jacket over a simple sweater. Her hair was pulled back into a practical braid, and though the dark circles under her eyes had faded, the fierce resolve in her gaze was unmistakable.
"You're supposed to be resting at the penthouse," Damen said, his voice dropping its hard edge as he looked at her.
"I've spent the last three days sleeping in high-security penthouses while my patients' records are being sorted out," Hannah said, stepping fully into the harsh fluorescent light. "Terminal 4 holds the diagnostic equipment meant for the new West Haven clinic wing. If Bobby Vance burns those containers, my clinic doesn't open next month."
Marco raised an eyebrow. "Boss, she's got a point. And taking her into a port shootout isn't exactly standard operating procedure."
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"She isn't staying here alone," Damen said, walking over to her. He reached out, his thumb brushing her cheekbone with surprising gentleness. "If you come, you stay in the armored transport with Marco. You don't step outside until the yard is cleared."
Hannah looked up into his gray eyes, steady and unyielding. "Deal."
