Chapter 2 - The Lion’s Den
The drive to the West Side shipping docks was suffocatingly quiet. Dawson sat in the back of the armored Cadillac, his freshly pressed gray suit making him look less like a street brawler and more like a corporate executioner. He hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the penthouse. He just stared out the window, his scarred knuckles twitching rhythmically against his thigh.
Sienna sat next to him, her leather portfolio gripped tightly in her lap. She could smell his cologne—something dark, woody, and expensive, mixed with the faint scent of the mints she had forced him to take instead of a morning cigarette.
"If you stare at me any harder, Ice Queen, you’re going to burn a hole through my suit," Dawson said, not turning his head.
"I'm just wondering if you remember the terms of the agreement," Sienna replied coolly. "You speak. You do not swing. Marcus Vance is an old-school union leader. He responds to respect, not broken jaws."
Dawson let out a low, dark chuckle. "Vance responds to fear, Sienna. That’s the only currency that doesn't deflate in this city."
When the car pulled up to the dilapidated warehouse, the tension grew palpable. Six of Vittorio's heavily armed men stepped out first, clearing the perimeter. Dawson opened his own door, ignoring the guard who reached for it, and stepped into the humid Chicago morning. He paused, holding the door open for Sienna.
"Stay behind me," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "And keep your mouth shut. This isn't the Onyx Lounge."
Inside, the warehouse was dark, smelling of rust and stagnant river water. Marcus Vance sat at a metal table surrounded by a dozen burly longshoremen. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and unspoken threats.
"Dawson," Vance said, not standing up. "Your father told me he was sending his boy. Didn't think he’d send a nanny, too." The men behind him laughed.
Sienna felt Dawson’s entire body stiffen. The air around him practically vibrated with lethal intent. She saw his hand drift toward the inside of his jacket where his Beretta was holstered.
Before he could take a step, Sienna stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply on the concrete. She pulled out a chair, set her portfolio down, and looked directly at Vance.
"Mr. Vance, my name is Sienna Brooks, Executive Assistant to Mr. Moretti. We have exactly twenty minutes before Mr. Moretti’s next appointment. If we are going to spend that time measuring egos, I suggest we do it over the updated shipping manifests, because the current numbers show a three percent discrepancy in the North Harbor imports. And we both know where that three percent went."
The warehouse went dead silent. Vance’s smile vanished.
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Dawson stared at the back of Sienna's head, an unreadable expression crossing his handsome face. Slowly, the corner of his mouth ticked upward. He pulled out the chair next to her and sat down, leaning back with lazy arrogance.
"You heard her, Marcus," Dawson said, his voice smooth as silk. "Talk to my assistant. Before I have to talk to you."
