Chapter 4 - The Shadow CouncilDeep in the penthouse suite of the Vance Tower overlooking downtown Baltimore, smoke hung thick in the air like a shroud.
Curtis Hale swirled amber whiskey in a heavy crystal glass, staring out at the panoramic view of the city he now controlled. The desk behind him—once occupied by Roland’s imposing presence—now bore his laptop, displaying satellite feeds of the harbor district.
"Are you certain the car went into the water?" Curtis asked without turning around.
Standing in the shadows near the mahogany bookshelf was Vince, Curtis’s chief enforcer—a hulking brute with a jagged scar running from his ear to his jawline.
"Positive, boss," Vince rasped. "The SUV went through the barrier at sixty miles per hour. The engine block was crushed, and the tide was coming in fast. Even if he survived the initial impact, the freezing water would have finished him off in ten minutes. No one walks away from that."
Curtis took a slow sip, a smirk playing on his lips. "Good. Roland was a relic of the old world. Too much honor, too many rules. Business requires ruthlessness. As of today, the Vance Syndicate belongs to us."
"There's just one problem," Vince added cautiously.
Curtis’s smirk vanished. He slammed his glass down, the amber liquid splashing over the rim. "What problem?"
"We checked the perimeter security logs from the old warehouse near the crash site. The footage from the municipal traffic cam on Harbor Avenue... it flickered right after the crash. For about three minutes, a stray mastiff—that beast that hangs around the docks—was pacing near the wreckage. And tracks... fresh footprints in the snow that didn't belong to Roland."
Curtis turned slowly, his eyes flashing with sudden, paranoid fury. "Footprints? Whose?"
"Don't know yet," Vince muttered. "Could be a homeless transient scavenging the wreck. Or... someone pulled him out."
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Curtis walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, pressing his palm against the cold glass. The city looked vast, indifferent, and ripe for the taking. But a cold knot twisted in his stomach. Roland Vance was not a man who died easily. He was a ghost carved from granite and malice.
"Find them," Curtis ordered, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Sweep every warehouse, every diner, every shipping container from here to the bay. If someone pulled him out of that car, I want them skinned and hung from the cargo cranes. And I want Roland's body—dead or alive."
