Chapter 2 - Blood on the Docks
By the second day, the true nature of the Graham syndicate bled into the pristine halls of the estate. Tailored suits walked past with heavy bulges beneath their jackets, bringing the sharp scent of gunpowder, expensive cologne, and violent urgency. Victor, Declan’s scarred and exhausted right-hand man, burst into the study while Narin was polishing the brass fireplace fixtures.
"We have a problem at the docks," Victor announced, ignoring Narin entirely. "The shipment was intercepted. Two of our guys are in the hospital. The Rossi family is retaliating for last month."
Declan gripped the armrests of his motorized wheelchair so tightly that his knuckles turned chalk white. The veins in his forearms strained violently against his skin. Before the bomb, Declan would have been down at the docks himself, bleeding alongside his men. Now, he was caged behind a mahogany desk, forced to wage a war through cold commands.
"Burn their warehouse on Fifth," Declan ordered, his tone devoid of human warmth. "Don’t kill unless you have to, but make sure the building is complete ash. And break the legs of whoever tipped them off."
Narin kept rubbing the brass fixture, watching her own reflection distort in the polished metal. She did not gasp, she did not drop her rag. She had learned early on that survival in this house meant becoming part of the furniture. Victor glanced sideways at her, leaning down to whisper a warning to his boss.
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"She doesn’t matter," Declan dismissed with a wave of his hand. "She’ll be gone by tomorrow anyway."
The words stung deeper than Narin expected, striking a raw nerve beneath her armor of exhaustion. But she repeated the magic numbers in her head: four thousand dollars. Rent, heat, survival. She kept polishing, ignoring the criminal empire operating inches away, entirely unaware that the foundation of the house was about to shift beneath her feet.
