Chapter 2 - The Stranger's Approach
He moved with an easy, terrifying grace.
Before Brett could notice, the man in the charcoal suit had crossed the small distance between our tables. His shadow fell across our white linen tablecloth, blocking out the warm glow of the brass lamp.
Brett frowned, looking up with an expression of sharp annoyance. "Excuse me, pal. We’re in the middle of private business here. Take a walk."
The stranger didn't look at Brett. His dark, impenetrable eyes remained fixed entirely on me, then drifted down to the black leather folder containing the four LLC documents.
"Private business," the stranger repeated. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards. "Interesting choice of words. Especially since one of those LLC papers bears a signature that belongs to someone who has been dead for four years."
Brett’s face drained of color in an instant. The polished arrogance vanished, replaced by a sudden, frantic twitch in his jaw. "Who the hell do you think you are? Back off, or—"
"Or what, Mr. Corrian?" the stranger asked smoothly. He reached out with long, perfectly manicured fingers and pulled the top document closer to himself. He didn't ask permission. He simply took it.
I held my breath. The stranger's eyes scanned the fine print of the power of attorney. Suddenly, a cold, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"Vanguard Holdings LLC," the man murmured, reading the corporate entity name aloud. "Registered out of a P.O. box in Cicero. Backed by capital transfers authorized by a signature from a primary stakeholder who supposedly signed off on the transfer last Tuesday."
Brett slammed his palm against the table, rattling the silverware. "I'm warning you! Security—"
"Security at the Ambrose answers to the management," the stranger interrupted calmly, finally lifting his gaze to look directly into Brett's terrified eyes. "Management answers to the property holding group. And the property holding group answers to me. My name is Julian Vance."
The name hit the table like a physical blow.
Even I, buried deep in the daily struggle of keeping my father's diner afloat, recognized the name. Julian Vance. A ghost in the city's financial sector, a man whose syndicate controlled shipping ports, real estate empires, and half the commercial zoning boards from downtown Chicago to the Indiana border. People didn't speak his name above a whisper.
Julian picked up the gold fountain pen I had dropped. He tapped it twice against the black envelope.
"Mr. Corrian," Julian said softly, leaning over the table so that Brett had no choice but to shrink backward into his leather chair. "You’ve been very busy forging signatures on corporate assets in my district. But you made one catastrophic error."
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"I didn't forge anything—" Brett stammered, sweat beading along his hairline.
"You forged my signature as the primary guarantor on company number three," Julian finished, his voice dropping an octave. "And worse... you interrupted my dinner."
