Chapter 5 - A Question of Leverage
The autumn air outside the warehouse was biting as I stepped out onto the sidewalk. The sun was barely cresting the horizon, painting the gray asphalt in pale amber tones. My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket—a simple text containing an address and a time for my first official walkthrough as part of Vincent's security detail.
Before I could unlock my car parked by the curb, a heavy hand gripped my elbow from behind, spinning me around with casual brutality.
"You're spending a lot of time with Coletti, Gallagher," a gravelly voice hissed.
It was Marcus, one of the enforcers from my old gym in Queens—a man who hadn't forgotten when I walked out on the syndicate's local bookmaker three years ago. His face was twisted into an ugly smirk, his breath smelling of stale tobacco and cheap coffee.
"Let go, Marcus," I said, my voice dropping into the same cool, level register I had used in the lounge. I didn't panic; my weight shifted instantly into my fighting stance, my right heel locking against the curb.
"Bosses downtown want to know if Coletti's expanding his turf, or if you're just sharing old war stories," Marcus sneer grew wider as he tightened his grip, pressing his thumb hard into my radial nerve.
Pain shot up my arm, but years of conditioning kept my face smooth. "Ask him yourself," I whispered, and before he could react, I drove my heel down hard onto the instep of his boot while driving my left palm upward into the hinge of his jaw.
Marcus staggered back with a curse, clutching his face as I stepped out of his reach. He glared at me, spitting blood onto the concrete. "You can't hide behind Vincent forever, sweet. He's got enemies you don't even know about."
"Let them line up," I said coldly, pulling my car keys from my pocket and unlocking the door without breaking eye contact.
I slid behind the steering wheel, my hands steady as I pulled my phone out and dialed Vincent's direct line. It rang twice before he answered on the other end.
"Coletti," his voice came through the speaker, crisp and alert.
"We have a scheduling conflict," I said, putting the car in drive as I pulled away from the curb. "Marcus from Queens is in town. And he wants to talk about your turf."
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There was a brief pause on the line, the sound of static and deep breathing before Vincent replied, his tone dropping into something cold and dangerous. "Where are you?"
"Heading to the lounge," I said. "Let's finish this walk-through together."
