Chapter 2 - The Scent of Gunsmoke
The hidden parlor was an island of silence within the fortified high-rise. Thick velvet curtains blocked the skyline, and a low green banker’s lamp cast amber circles on a leather sofa. Julian pushed Elena down onto the cushions with uncharacteristic gentleness, kneeling once again before her. He peeled back the edge of her torn sleeve, exposing four distinct purple finger marks dug deep into her skin. His breath hitched, a predatory rattle in his chest.
“Answer me,” he repeated, the command quieter this time, far more dangerous. “Where is my son, Elena?”
Elena buried her face in her palms, her body shuddering as a violent sob racked her frame. “I didn't bring him into the city, Julian. Do you think I'm a fool? I left him in the cabin at Blackwood Ridge. Martha has him. But they found me before I could make the switch. They were wearing badges.”
Julian went completely still. A badge meant corruption, but more dangerously, it meant legal authority had been bought by someone with enough capital to ignore the Syndicate's territorial boundaries. The local captains didn't have that kind of leverage. Only the syndicate elders or an outside conglomerate had the pockets to hire federal agents as hitmen.
He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and began cleaning the dirt and grease from the knuckles of her hands. “Federal or municipal?”
“Federal,” she whispered, her voice cracked and raw. “They flashed marshals’ credentials. They said they were taking me into protective custody under the Rico statute, but the car had blacked-out civilian plates. One of them had a burn scar running across his left jawline.”
Julian’s hand froze against hers. His thumb pressed firmly against her wrist, feeling her frantic, skittering pulse. The scar was unmistakable. Victor Vance—a former tactical officer turned fixer for the Castiglione cartel. Vance was the hound they released when they didn't just want someone dead, but needed to unearth secrets first.
“Vance doesn't work for badges,” Julian said, his eyes darkening to obsidian. “He works for my uncle.”
A heavy knock rattled the reinforced door of the hidden parlor. Mikhail stepped inside, not waiting for permission—a breach of protocol that meant only one thing: an emergency.
“Julian,” Mikhail said, holding out a burner phone with an active call glowing on the screen. “The perimeter team at Blackwood Ridge isn't answering. And this just came through on the encrypted line.”
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Julian took the phone, his eyes never leaving Elena’s pale, terrified face. He pressed it to his ear without saying a word.
From the other end of the receiver came the faint, distorted sound of a music box—the lullaby Julian had bought for an unborn child four years ago—followed by a low, mocking voice: “He has your eyes, Julian. Pity he won't keep them for long.”
