Chapter 3 - The Shadow Over 47th Street
The Rusty Nail smelled of stale beer, cheap tobacco, and desperate violence.
At four in the morning, the bar was nearly empty, save for a few drunk regulars slouched over sticky wooden tables and a tired bartender wiping down the counter with a greasy rag.
In a booth at the back sat Derek Vance.
He was a tall, thick-set man in his late thirties with thinning light brown hair and a heavy, flush jawline flushed red from whiskey. He slammed a heavy glass down on the table, glaring at his phone screen.
"Bitch isn't answering," Derek muttered to himself, scrolling through his text history. "Thinks because she's in the hospital she can ignore me."
He raised his hand to bark at the bartender for another drink when the front door of the bar clicked open.
A sudden draught of freezing rain swept into the room.
The bartender opened his mouth to tell the late arrival that the bar was closing, but the words died in his throat.
Two men in tailored dark coats stepped inside, taking up positions on either side of the entrance. They didn't look like cops, and they certainly didn't look like local muscle. They moved with the terrifying, synchronized calm of professional soldiers.
Then came Luca Marino.
He walked into the filthy bar like a king entering a ruined dungeon. His tailored coat was dry, his dark hair slicked back, his presence so massive and suffocating that even the drunks in the corner instinctively sat up straight, their instincts screaming at them to run.
Luca scanned the room once. His dark eyes locked onto Derek Vance.
Derek frowned, his alcohol-addled brain trying to process the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Derek sneered, pushing himself up from the booth. "Bar's private tonight, pal. Get lost."
Luca didn't answer. He walked toward the booth with unhurried, deliberate steps, stopping two feet from Derek's table.
Up close, the contrast was absurd. Derek was sloppy, red-faced, and reeking of whiskey; Luca was immaculate, ruthless, and radiating an ancient, lethal authority.
"Derek Vance," Luca said softly. His voice carried no anger, only a terrifying, clinical stillness.
"Yeah? Who's asking?" Derek sneered, stepping out of the booth and trying to puff out his chest. "If you're here about the gambling debt to Miller, tell him I'll have his money next week!"
"I am not here about money," Luca said, his hands casually resting in the pockets of his coat. "I am here about Elena Marsh."
Derek froze. A ugly, suspicious smirk twisted his mouth. "Elena? What, you her new boyfriend? Did that little lying rat go running to someone else?"
Smack.
The sound was like a whip cracking.
Before Derek could even register the movement, Luca’s right hand shot out, catching Derek by the throat and slamming him backward onto the wooden table. Glasses shattered, spilling amber liquid everywhere.
Derek choked, his eyes bulging as Luca leaned down, pressing his thumb directly into Derek’s windpipe with just enough pressure to stop his air, but not enough to crush it completely.
"Listen to me very carefully, you pathetic piece of trash," Luca growled, his face inches from Derek’s. "You will never speak her name again. You will never look at her photo. You will never walk down a street where she breathes."
"Get... off... me!" Derek gasped, flailing his thick arms to punch Luca.
Luca caught Derek’s right wrist in mid-air. With a flick of his wrist and a brutal, calculated twist, he bent Derek's hand backward.
SNAP.
A sharp bone fracture echoed through the bar.
Derek let out a high-pitched, agonizing shriek of pain that was cut short as Luca tightened his grip on his throat, cutting off his voice.
"That," Luca whispered softly into Derek's ear, "was for her wrists. If I find out you ever raised your hand to Chloe again, I won't break your bones. I will bury you so deep under the concrete of the Port of Chicago that no one will ever find your fingernails."
Derek wept silently, blood and tears mixing on his cheeks, his head pinned to the sticky table under Luca’s crushing grip. The terror in his eyes was absolute. He was looking at a predator from a world he didn't even know existed.
Luca released him. Derek collapsed to the floor in a heap, cradling his broken wrist and retching.
Luca pulled a crisp white linen handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his fingers carefully, and tossed the cloth onto Derek’s face.
He turned to the bartender, who was trembling behind the counter, staring at the floor.
"This establishment is closed," Luca said calmly, pulling a stack of hundred-dollar bills from his jacket and dropping them on the bar. "Clean this up. If any police ask, Mr. Vance fell down the stairs outside."
May you like
"Y-yes, sir," the bartender stammered, not daring to look up.
Luca walked out of the bar, leaving Derek whimpering in the dark.
