Chapter 5 - Wolves in the Parlor
The private parlor smelled of old leather, unlit cigar smoke, and expensive bourbon.
Sitting in a wingback armchair was a man named Vincent Rossi—an aging, silver-haired lieutenant from the Detroit syndicate, wearing a cream-colored suit that looked entirely out of place against Chicago’s gray skies. Two armed enforcers stood behind his chair, their hands resting casually inside their suit jackets.
Casper didn't sit down. He walked straight to the center of the room, hands sliding into his pockets, his presence instantly dominating the space. Marin stood two steps behind his right shoulder, her hands folded neatly over her portfolio, her face a mask of absolute calm.
"Casper," Rossi smiled, revealing teeth that were a bit too yellow. "Good to see you survived the little incident at your banquet last week. Heard things got... messy."
"Cleaned up nicely, Vincent," Casper replied, his voice smooth as glass. "Though I’m surprised you sent an envoy to discuss trash removal. Usually, Detroit sends its garbage straight to the incinerator."
Rossi’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes hardening. "Let's not play games, Hail. The North Side docks are vulnerable. With Victor Vance out of the picture and your board in disarray after the poisoning attempt, my employers are prepared to take over the container distribution rights on a fifty-fifty split."
"Fifty-fifty," Casper repeated, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. "You want half my shipping lanes because one of my subordinates tried to poison me?"
"We want stability," Rossi said smoothly, leaning forward. "And if you won't cooperate, we have ways of making your supply lines very... inconvenient."
Marin watched Rossi closely. She saw the slight twitch in his right thumb—the nervous tic of a man bluffing with a weak hand. She noticed the way his enforcers shifted their weight to their left feet, unready for a sudden counter-attack.
Without thinking, Marin leaned forward and murmured a single sentence directly into Casper’s ear, speaking in a low, rapid whisper.
"He's lying about the board. If his employers had the backing of the Detroit syndicate's main council, he would have demanded eighty percent. Fifty means he's freelancing on a desperate gamble before his bosses find out he's broke."
Casper didn't turn around, but a fraction of a smile touched his lips. He let the silence stretch for five agonizing seconds, watching Rossi sweat under his tailored cream suit.
"Tell me, Vincent," Casper said softly, taking a slow step toward the arm chair. "How is your primary shipping hub in Windsor holding up? I heard rumors that local customs officials were about to seize three warehouses full of unregistered electronics. Must be terrible for cash flow."
Rossi’s face drained of color in an instant. He leaped to his feet, knocking his chair backward onto the rug. "How do you—that's confidential—!"
"In my city, Vincent, nothing is confidential," Casper interrupted, his voice dropping an octave into a register that made the two Detroit enforcers tense up, their hands twitching toward their hidden hardware. "You have twenty-four hours to get out of Illinois. If I see your face, or any of your men's faces, north of Joliet, I won't negotiate terms. I’ll feed you to the lake."
Rossi stared at Casper, chest heaving, realizing too late that walking into the Hail Mansion had been a death sentence disguised as a business trip. He swallowed hard, backed toward the double doors, and spat out a curse before turning and fleeing from the room with his men scrambling behind him.
The heavy oak doors clicked shut.
Silence returned to the parlor.
Casper slowly turned around to face Marin, who was standing quietly with her portfolio pressed against her chest.
"You have a very dangerous habit of being right," Casper observed quietly.
"I have a habit of paying attention," Marin corrected, her heart pounding against her ribs even though her voice remained steady. "Mr. Rossi was sweating through his collar before he even sat down. A man who holds all the cards doesn't blink like that."
Casper stepped closer to her—closer than professional boundaries allowed, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. His dark eyes searched her face with an intensity that felt less like an employer evaluating a worker and more like a predator discovering something rare and unexpected in the dark.
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"You’re not afraid of them," Casper murmured, his voice dropping to a low, husky register. "You weren't afraid of Delphine, you weren't afraid of Victor, and you weren't afraid of Rossi."
"I've been afraid of things that matter, Mr. Hail," Marin whispered back, her amber eyes holding his gaze without flinching. "Men in expensive suits shouting empty threats don't rank very high on the list."
