Chapter 4 - Locked Doors and Restless Wolves
Outside the salon, Fifth Avenue was in a state of chaotic lockdown.
Four black SUVs belonging to Dante’s security detail blocked the intersection, their hazard lights blinking against the gray twilight. Behind them, a growing crowd of paparazzi, curious onlookers, and local reporters pressed against the yellow police tape, cameras flashing like summer lightning.
Inside his armored Mercedes parked across the street, Richard Sterling slammed his fist against the leather armrest, his face purple with rage.
"What do you mean, they won't let us in?" Richard demanded, glaring at his chief of private security, a hulking ex-mercenary named Miller. "It's a beauty salon! Call the NYPD! Have them batter the doors down!"
"Sir, we tried," Miller said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Dante Serrano’s private army has the entire block surrounded. The precinct captain won't even pick up our calls. Serrano dropped seventy grand just to lock the place down. Whatever is happening inside that building, Serrano doesn't want anyone watching."
Richard’s stomach knotted with a sudden, violent wave of panic. For three years, he had slept soundly in the penthouse suite of the Sterling Tower, basking in the absolute security of his ill-gotten empire. He had engineered the yacht explosion. He had paid off the harbor police. He had even hired the men who chased Cassandra into the freezing waters of the Hudson that stormy November night.
He thought she had drowned. He thought the secret was buried miles beneath the sea.
"Listen to me, Miller," Richard hissed, leaning forward so his face was inches from his security chief. "If Dante Serrano has found her... if she's alive inside that salon... neither of us survives the week. I want a tactical team at the service exit in five minutes. If they try to bring her out, we take her. Permanently."
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Miller hesitated, his eyes darting toward the cordoned-off alleyway. "Serrano doesn't miss, Mr. Sterling. If we go to war with him on Fifth Avenue, it won't be a hit. It'll be a massacre."
"Then do it quietly," Richard snarled, handing him a burner phone. "And make sure there's nothing left to identify."
