Chapter 3 - The Visitor at the GateThe morning dragged like a broken anchor.
Roman lay staring at the ceiling, running through the inventory of his mind. In Albany, he had bank accounts that required three separate biometric keys, safehouses lined with titanium sheeting, and an army of men who kissed his ring. Here, he was anchored to a lumpy mattress, dependent on a woman who looked like she hadn't eaten a full meal in a week, guarded by a dog with more scars than a veteran infantryman.
Think, he told himself. Vance is cautious. He won't move on the whole city at once. He’ll secure the docks first, then pay off the district attorney, then purge my old captains.
That would give him forty-eight hours. Maybe seventy-two.
A low, vibrating growl from the floor broke his concentration.
Bear was standing now, his massive shoulders squared, hackles raised like coarse black spikes along his spine. He wasn't looking at the door. He was staring at the small, frosted window that looked out over the front clearing.
Roman strained his neck, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Through the thick, distorted glass, a black Ford Explorer with tinted windows and municipal plates was idling at the edge of the property, its tires biting deep into the snowbanks. The engine hummed with a low, predatory purr.
Too fast, Roman thought, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. It hasn't even been four hours. How did he find me so fast?
The passenger door swung open. A man stepped out, wearing an expensive wool overcoat that looked entirely out of place in the Adirondack wilderness. He had slicked-back blonde hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and an umbrella he didn't bother opening despite the falling sleet.
It wasn't Dominic Vance. It was Julian Cross—Vance’s primary legal counsel and the man who handled every offshore transfer the Falconee syndicate owned.
Roman’s hand slid instinctively toward the pillow, searching for something—anything—to use as a weapon. His fingers closed on nothing. Just cotton and feathers.
The heavy oak door didn't even knock. It just splintered inward with a single, brutal kick, sending the deadbolt flying across the room like a silver coin.
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Julian Cross stepped over the splintered threshold, brushing a speck of snow from his sleeve. He looked around the rustic cabin with an expression of mild, clinical disgust, before his eyes finally settled on the bed.
"Well, well, well," Julian smiled, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses. "They told me at the docks that you went out with a bang, Roman. I told them you were always too stubborn to burn."
