Chapter 2 - The Red Lion Cleanout
The Red Lion was a dingy, smoke-filled dive bar tucked beneath the elevated train tracks on the edge of the industrial district. It was the kind of place where money was laundered, drugs were weighed, and men who didn't exist spent cash that couldn't be traced.
Inside, neon beer signs flickered against grimy walls. Bass from a jukebox vibrated through the sticky wooden floorboards.
At the back booth sat Caleb Keller. He was a broad, oily man with greasy blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Across his neck stretched a thick, dark tattoo of a striking viper. He was laughing loudly, tossing two dice onto the wooden table while three men around him cheered, clutching glasses of cheap whiskey.
Suddenly, the front doors of the tavern didn't just open—they blew off their steel hinges.
The deafening crash echoed above the jukebox music as the heavy doors slammed onto the floorboards. Before the patrons could even react, eight men in tailored charcoal suits flooded the bar, carrying suppressed short-barrel rifles.
Panicked screams erupted as patrons scrambled under tables and behind the bar counter.
Caleb Keller sprang up from his booth, his hand reaching for the 9mm pistol tucked into his waistband. “What the hell—”
Before his fingers could touch the grip, Marcus crossed the room like a freight train, grabbing Caleb by the throat and slamming his face hard into the oak table. Glasses shattered, whiskey spilled everywhere, and Caleb let out a muffled scream of pain as his nose broke instantly against the wood.
The three men sitting with Caleb tried to draw their weapons, but within two seconds, they were forced onto their knees, the cold steel muzzles of rifles pressed firmly against the backs of their necks.
Silence fell over The Red Lion, heavy and terrifying, broken only by the hum of the flickering neon lights.
The crowd parted as Dominic Vale walked slowly into the bar.
He didn't rush. He walked with the relaxed, terrifying confidence of an apex predator entering his own territory. He tossed his half-finished cigarette onto the floor and crushed it beneath his Italian leather shoe.
Dominic walked over to the back booth, pulled out a wooden chair, turned it around, and sat down across from Caleb, resting his arms over the backrest.
Marcus pulled Caleb up by his ponytail, forcing the bleeding man to look at Dominic.
“Dominic...” Caleb wheezed, spit and blood dripping from his chin onto his leather jacket. “What the hell is this? We’re under protection from the Rossi family! You can’t touch us!”
Dominic didn't answer right away. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pair of black leather driving gloves, and slowly began pulling them onto his hands, finger by finger.
“Caleb,” Dominic spoke softly, his tone almost conversational. “Where is Clara Morales?”
Caleb’s eyes flickered with a sudden, sharp flash of panic, though he quickly tried to cover it with a sneer. “Who? I don't know what the hell you’re talking about, Vale. We don't mess with your people—”
Dominic raised his hand slightly.
Crack.
Marcus drove a heavy elbow down onto Caleb’s right shoulder, snapping the collarbone with a sickening sound. Caleb let out an agonizing shriek, collapsing sideways against the booth, clutching his shoulder as tears poured down his blood-soaked face.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Dominic said, his gray eyes unblinking, devoid of even a sliver of mercy. “Where is Clara Morales?”
“I don't know her name!” Caleb sobbed, clutching his broken shoulder. “We just took a woman from the Westbridge apartments! It was a job! A private contract!”
Dominic leaned forward, his face inches from Caleb’s trembling, bloody nose. “Who hired you?”
“Mason! My brother Mason took her!” Caleb stammered, his bravado entirely crushed. “Some guy paid us ten grand down to grab her! He said she had documents her late husband hid before he died! Old financial ledgers from the harbor authority!”
“Where is Mason holding her?” Dominic demanded, his voice dropping into an icy whisper.
“The old cold-storage warehouse on Pier 4!” Caleb cried out, blood splattering from his lips. “Mason is holding her there until the buyer comes at midnight to collect the documents and the woman! I swear to God, Dominic, that’s all I know! Don't kill me!”
Dominic stood up, smoothing down his wool coat. He looked at the sniveling man on the floor with utter disgust.
“You broke into a home,” Dominic said quietly. “You took a mother from her child. You broke a seven-year-old girl’s hand in the doorframe.”
Caleb’s eyes widened in sheer horror. “Wait—what? I didn't know about no kid—”
Dominic looked at Marcus. “Break his other shoulder. Then throw him in the trunk. We might need him later.”
“No! No! Dominic, please!” Caleb’s screams were cut short as Marcus dragged him out the back exit into the rainy alley.
Dominic turned toward the rest of the bar patrons who were still cowering under the tables. He pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket, opened it, and looked around the quiet room.
“If anyone in this room speaks a word of what happened here tonight,” Dominic announced to the silent room, his voice echoing off the walls, “I will personally ensure your families spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders. Clear out.”
Within thirty seconds, the bar was completely empty.
Dominic walked out onto the street, where Tony was waiting by the lead SUV, a radio pressed to his ear.
“Boss,” Tony said, looking up with a grave expression. “We just tracked the buyer’s vehicle heading toward Pier 4. You’re not going to believe who’s behind this.”
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“Try me,” Dominic said, stepping into the back of the armored vehicle.
“It’s Raymond Vance,” Tony reported, his jaw tight. “The Assistant District Attorney.”
