Chapter 5 - The South Side Fire
The North Tower’s command center was located in the sub-basement—a windowless vault lined with digital surveillance monitors, encrypted radio transceivers, and maps of Chicago divided into red and blue operational zones.
When Adrian and I strode into the room, Marcus and Dante were already standing over a large tactical table, arguing over a topographical map of the Calumet Harbor district.
"It wasn't a standard Molotov," Marcus was saying, running a hand through his dark curls, looking panicked. "The forensics team at the scene says it was magnesium-laced thermite. It melted through three shipping containers of imported espresso beans before the local engine company even hooked up their hoses. Total loss is near two million."
"Vance," Adrian said, his voice cutting through the panic like a razor blade.
Marcus blinked. "What?"
"Vance didn't hit us with thermite to destroy coffee beans," Adrian stated, walking over to the map and placing his finger squarely on Berth 42—the exact grain elevator terminal I had been auditing ten minutes earlier. "He hit us to send a message about the Apex Grain ledgers."
Marcus stared at his older brother, then his eyes flicked toward me standing in the doorway.
"What do grain ledgers have to do with the docks?" Marcus demanded, crossing his arms. "Vance is a smuggler, not an accountant!"
"Vance isn't just a smuggler," I said, stepping into the harsh fluorescent light of the vault. I laid the Apex Grain file down on the tactical map, right over Berth 42. "He’s the primary lienholder on the municipal elevator property my father used as collateral for the second three million dollar loan."
Dante whistled softly, leaning over the map. "Holy hell. The old man mortgaged the grain elevator twice?"
"Three times," I corrected, pointing to a highlighted line at the bottom of the manifest. "And the third mortgage was signed over to an offshore trust controlled by Marcus Vance’s own chief of logistics."
Marcus’s face drained of color. He looked from the file to his brother. "Ad... I swear to God, I didn't know—"
"I know you didn't know, Marcus," Adrian interrupted, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Because you don't read your own operational contracts. You let accountants handle the details, and accountants can be bought."
Adrian turned his head toward me, his gray eyes shining with a dark, predatory light.
"Talia," he said. "Can you trace the cash flow from Vance’s offshore trust back to the procurement of the thermite?"
I looked down at the documents, feeling the familiar, thrilling hum of focus settle over my mind. All my life, my family had treated my analytical mind as a useless defect—a cold, sterile trait in a woman who was supposed to be decorative and quiet.
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Now, a room full of dangerous men was waiting for me to tell them where to point their guns.
"Give me three hours, a secure terminal, and a cup of black coffee," I said, buttoning the cuffs of my cashmere sweater. "And I’ll give you the home address of the man who lit the match."
