Chapter 7 - Shadows in the Warehouse
Back in Cicero, Avery Carter sat at the small kitchen table, staring at the black business card resting next to her coffee cup.
She had accepted the job.
It hadn't been an easy choice. Her mother had worried herself sick over the implications, but the promise of a private medical team, unrestricted access to the best oncologists and renal specialists in the Midwest, and a salary that would secure their future had ultimately tipped the scales.
“You’re fighting for me, Avery,” Linda had said quietly, holding her daughter’s hand that afternoon. “You’ve been fighting for me for eight years. If working for a dangerous man is what it takes to keep us safe, then I trust you. You’ve always known how to handle yourself.”
Now, it was 9:00 PM. Avery was scheduled to start her formal orientation at the Lake Forest estate the following morning at 6:00 AM.
She decided to run down to the local 24-hour pharmacy to pick up her mother’s monthly refill before turning in early.
The air outside was crisp, the autumn chill biting sharply through her jacket as she walked down the cracked concrete sidewalks of 4th Street. The neighborhood was quiet, lit only by the amber hum of overhead streetlamps and the occasional passing set of headlights.
As she turned the corner toward the pharmacy, she heard it—the low, rumbling idle of a heavy engine parked illegally in the red zone behind the alley.
Avery’s instincts, dormant for eight years, snapped instantly to attention. Her spine straightened, her senses sharpening, every nerve ending hyper-aware of her surroundings.
She slowed her pace, keeping close to the brick wall of the hardware store.
Two men stepped out from the shadows of the alleyway, blocking her path forward. They wore heavy leather jackets, dark caps pulled low over their brows, and walked with the deliberate, heavy-footed swagger of enforcers who were used to intimidating people into silence.
“Avery Carter?” the taller one asked, his voice gravelly and unconvincing.
“Depends who’s asking,” Avery replied, her voice steady, her hands dropping naturally into the loose pockets of her jacket, balling into tight, practiced fists.
“Friends of the Whitmore family,” the man sneered, taking another step forward. “Old man Richard wants a little word with you about some documents that mysteriously found their way to federal investigators today. We figured we’d take you for a nice little ride to the docks to talk about it.”
Avery let out a cold, humorless breath. “Tell Richard Whitmore that if he wants to talk to me, he can make an appointment with my new boss. And trust me—he doesn't want to pay Dominic Moretti’s hourly rate.”
The two men exchanged a dark look. “Guess we’ll just have to break your legs first, sweetheart.”
The taller enforcer lunged forward, throwing a clumsy, heavy right hook aimed directly at Avery’s jaw.
It was a rookie mistake—telegraphed, slow, and entirely lacking in core rotation.
Avery didn't duck. She stepped inside the punch, slipping gracefully beneath his arm, pivoting on her left heel, and driving her elbow upward with explosive force right into his solar plexus.
The man let out a sharp, breathless gasp, his eyes rolling back as he doubled over in agony.
Before the second enforcer could draw a concealed weapon from his waistband, Avery spun fluidly, executing a lightning-fast side kick that caught him squarely in the chest, sending him crashing backward through the glass window of a closed antique shop with a deafening explosion of shattering shards.
The street went dead silent, save for the crunch of glass and the wheezing groans of the two men writhing on the pavement.
Avery stood amidst the debris, breathing slightly harder than usual, her hands unhurt, adjusting her jacket collar with calm, effortless precision.
Suddenly, the heavy roar of a high-performance engine echoed down the street.
A sleek, black Maybach sedan rounded the corner at high speed, tires screeching against the asphalt as it slammed to a halt directly beside the shattered storefront.
The rear door swung open instantly.
Marcus Vance stepped out, his hand resting on the grip of a silenced pistol under his coat, followed closely by Dominic Moretti himself.
Dominic scanned the scene in a fraction of a second—the two downed thugs, the broken window, and Avery standing completely unharmed in the center of the pavement.
Dominic slowly let his hand drop from his jacket. A slow, deeply impressed smile crept across his chiseled features.
“Well,” Dominic murmured, stepping over a piece of broken glass as he walked toward her. “I was coming to check on my new head of security to make sure she was settling in. It appears I arrived just in time to watch her audition.”
Avery sighed, shaking her head as she looked down at her ruined sneakers resting in the glass.
“You know, Mr. Moretti,” Avery said dryly, “for a billionaire who claims he wants to protect people, your neighborhood watch program leaves a lot to be desired.”
May you like
Dominic chuckled, a rich, genuine sound that cut through the chilly night air, and stepped closer, offering her his hand.
“Welcome to the syndicate, Avery,” he said softly. “Let’s go home.”
