Chapter 2: The Enforcer’s High-Rise

The building loomed like a concrete fortress against the night sky, its upper floors a grid of dim lights. I sat in my beat-up sedan across the street, the engine off, the heater barely whispering.

Rain-slicked asphalt reflected the neon glow of a bar two blocks down.

My gaze was locked on the main entrance of the building, a dark maw under a recessed archway. The outline said it was a luxury squat, but “luxury” didn’t begin to cover the implied threat.

A delivery driver in a faded uniform tried to approach the building’s main doors, a hand cart loaded with boxes rattling behind him. Two figures, solid and unsmiling, stepped out from the shadows of the archway.

They were in dark, untucked shirts, arms crossed. Their movements were slow, deliberate.

They weren’t security guards in any official uniform. These were Soria’s people.

I’d seen their type before, not in financial audits, but in the margins of police reports that never went anywhere. They were Barrett Soria’s local crew, his muscle.

The delivery driver gestured to his boxes, his mouth moving in a silent appeal. One of the men shook his head once, a dismissive gesture.

He pointed to a smaller service entrance around the side, then back to the street. The message was clear: stay out.

The driver’s shoulders slumped. He wheeled his cart away, a picture of defeat.

I watched, a cold knot tightening in my gut. Marcus hadn’t just bought a fancy apartment. He’d bought protection.

Expensive protection.

I ran the numbers in my head, a habit I couldn’t shake. $420,000 in stolen equity. How much would it take to hire this kind of round-the-clock, paramilitary-grade security detail?

At least $50,000, probably more. Paid upfront. That was Marcus, always overspending to project power.

He’d skimmed a fortune from Chloe and used it to fortify himself behind a wall of hardened street enforcers. My usual methods, official reports and legal channels, wouldn’t touch this place. They wouldn’t even get past the front door.

A quiet sigh escaped me. I couldn’t kick down this door. My sixty years of balancing ledgers wouldn’t help against these men.

I needed a different kind of leverage. Something they understood.

I started the engine, the low growl feeling loud in the silence. The diner across the street, a greasy spoon with a flickering neon sign, looked like a good place to start. An observation post.

A place to watch and wait.