Chapter 4 - THE WAREHOUSE ON FIFTH STREET|
The Fifth Street warehouse smelled of old grease, rust, and damp concrete. Underneath a single overhead halogen light, Carlos and Miguel sat duct-taped to heavy metal folding chairs.
Their faces were already bruised from Sal’s initial questioning, but their eyes still held the cocky, reckless defiance of low-level street thugs.
The heavy steel door creaked open. Vincent walked in slowly. He hadn't changed out of his suit. The bloodstain on his cuff was dry now, a dark, rusty memory.
"Mr. Torino!" Carlos yelled, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. "Look, man, this is a misunderstanding! We were just collecting street tax for Razer! We didn't know the broad was off-limits!"
Vincent pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and laid it gently on a wooden crate in front of them.
It was a crayon drawing Sophie had made in the SUV—a stick-figure girl holding hands with a woman under a bright yellow sun.
"Sixty-seven dollars," Vincent said quietly. "That was what was in her register."
"We were just following orders!" Miguel sobbed, his composure instantly cracking under Vincent’s calm, terrifying demeanor. "Razer said to make an example of someone on Halsted!"
Vincent stepped closer, his shadow swallowing both men.
"Seventeen years ago, my wife was killed because a rival gang wanted to send me a message," Vincent whispered, his tone dropping to a dangerous frequency. "I spent the last seventeen years ensuring no one ever touched what was mine again."
"We didn't know!" Carlos screamed, straining against the tape.
"You didn't care," Vincent corrected. He turned his back to them and walked toward the exit. "Sal."
"Yeah, Don Vincent?"
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"Don't kill them. But make sure they never use their hands to hurt another woman again."
As Vincent stepped out into the night air, the heavy steel doors slammed shut, muffling the sudden, desperate screams from inside.
