Chapter 5 - The Halsted Street Poker DenThe basement beneath the old meat-packing warehouse on Halsted Street was thick with blue cigar smoke, the clinking of heavy poker chips, and the low murmur of men gambling away fortunes they hadn't legally earned.
When the heavy steel side door crashed open with a deafening bang, every man at the tables froze.
Four armed enforcers from Julian’s detail poured into the room in tactical formation, their weapons raised, securing the perimeter before anyone could reach for a concealed firearm.
Julian walked in behind them like an executioner entering a throne room. He didn't carry a gun; he didn't need to. The sheer terror his presence inspired emptied the room of oxygen faster than a vacuum.
At the center poker table, Yuri Petrov—the man with the crescent-shaped scar on his neck—dropped his cards, his face draining of all color as he scrambled backward out of his chair.
"M-Mr. Mercer," Petrov stammered, raising his hands defensively. "I... I didn't know you were visiting this district—"
Julian didn't answer. He walked straight up to Petrov, grabbed him by the expensive silk lapel of his jacket, and hoisted him off his feet with one hand, slamming him violently against the concrete pillar behind the table.
Petrov gasped for air, his heels kicking uselessly against the floor.
Nora walked up behind Julian, carrying a slim leather briefcase. She opened it calmly, pulling out a printed stack of financial documents and holding them up like an indictment.
"Yuri Petrov," Nora said, her voice clear and steady in the silent basement. "Born in Kiev, naturalized in Chicago under a false Social Security number, and currently employed as a chemical saboteur for Viktor Vance."
Petrov’s eyes darted wildly between Julian’s murderous gaze and Nora’s calm expression. "I don't know what you're talking about... I'm just a card dealer—"
"You used an amber dropper bottle at 8:05 PM on Friday inside L'Étoile to contaminate a glass of champagne belonging to Claire Mercer," Nora recited, stepping right up to him. "I have the security footage, I have the chemical residue report from the hospital toxicology lab, and I have your offshore transfer receipts from Viktor Vance sitting right here."
Petrov swallowed hard, sweat beading across his forehead. "You're crazy... you can't prove—"
"I don't need to prove it in a court of law, Yuri," Julian whispered, his voice dropping into a register so cold it felt like liquid nitrogen. "This isn't a trial. This is an audit."
Julian tightened his grip, lifting Petrov another inch off the ground. "Where is Viktor?"
"I don't know! I swear!" Petrov choked out. "He's... he's meeting with the city zoning commissioner at the Lake Shore yacht club at midnight! That's all I know!"
Julian stared at him for three agonizing seconds, then shoved him backward onto the concrete floor with enough force to knock the wind out of him permanently.
Julian turned to Marcus. "Tie him up, gag him, and leave him for the federal marshals with an anonymous tip pointing toward his immigration fraud. Let's go."
As they hurried back out to the waiting town car, Nora looked at Julian from the passenger seat.
May you like
"Lake Shore yacht club," Nora said. "Midnight. That's in forty minutes."
Julian slammed the car door shut, leaning forward to instruct the driver. "Step on it."
