Chapter 2 - The Wedding Suit Stayed on the Tailor’s Floor

Dr. Varga’s clinic occupied the basement of a private dental practice.

The sign upstairs promised cosmetic veneers.

Downstairs, men like Damian paid cash for silence.

Elena was unconscious by the time Marcus carried her through the rear entrance.

Varga cut away the blood-soaked towel, swore once, and ordered Damian out.

Damian did not move.

“You want me to work or perform for you?” the doctor snapped.

That was enough.

Damian stepped into the narrow corridor.

Marcus followed.

The door shut.

For the first time since entering Elena’s apartment, Damian had nothing immediate to do.

That was dangerous.

Action kept rage shaped.

Stillness gave it imagination.

Marcus leaned against the wall.

“Boss.”

Damian stared at the brass casing in his palm.

“Find the caliber.”

Marcus took it.

“Nine millimeter.”

“Manufacturer.”

“I’ll check.”

“Quietly.”

Marcus nodded.

“No calls through the office.”

Another nod.

“No one knows she’s alive.”

Marcus understood immediately.

Not Vivienne.

Not Cross security.

Not even Damian’s inner circle.

Especially not if Elena was right.

“Who do we trust?” Marcus asked.

Damian looked through the clinic door at the shadow moving beneath it.

“For the next hour?”

“Yes.”

“You.”

Marcus absorbed that without pride.

Damian’s phone rang.

Vivienne.

He let it ring.

Again.

Again.

On the fourth call, he answered.

“Where are you?” she demanded.

“Busy.”

“My father landed an hour ago.”

“Then greet him.”

“The rehearsal dinner begins in ninety minutes.”

“Cancel it.”

Silence.

“What?”

“Cancel the dinner.”

Vivienne’s voice changed.

“Damian.”

“The wedding too.”

The corridor became very quiet.

Marcus looked away.

Vivienne spoke slowly.

“You are not making sense.”

“I’m making perfect sense.”

“Because your assistant missed work?”

Damian closed his eyes.

There it was.

Not concern.

Positioning.

“How did you know she missed work?”

“You told me.”

“No. I told you she hadn’t checked in for two days.”

“That means she missed work.”

“Maybe.”

Another silence.

“Where are you?” she asked again.

Damian almost smiled.

“That sounds like concern.”

“It sounds like I don’t enjoy being humiliated.”

“Then don’t stand at the altar Friday.”

He ended the call.

Marcus exhaled.

“That went well.”

Damian looked at him.

Marcus straightened.

“Sorry.”

Varga emerged forty minutes later.

“She’ll live.”

Something in Damian’s chest unlocked.

“Damage?”

“Knife wound through the lateral thigh. Missed the femoral artery. Significant blood loss. Two cracked ribs. Facial fractures are superficial. Dehydrated. Fever beginning.”

“Gunshot?”

“No.”

Damian frowned.

“The casing.”

“Could belong to whoever was there. She wasn’t shot.”

“Can she be moved?”

“Not tonight.”

Damian’s phone buzzed.

A message from Vivienne.

If this is a stunt, you have ten minutes to correct it.

He deleted it.

Varga studied him.

“I need blood type confirmation.”

“A positive.”

The doctor looked up.

“You know?”

“She handles my medical files.”

That answer felt more intimate than it should have.

Varga returned inside.

Marcus stepped closer.

“What now?”

Damian unfolded the photographs from the envelope.

Rafael Dorne.

Vivienne.

Pier Nine.

The invoice.

Then the sentence Elena had given him.

Vivienne knows where your father’s original dock ledger is.

If true, the engagement had never been only a merger.

It had been access.

Cross routes.

Cross warehouses.

Cross legitimacy.

And possibly Cross history.

Damian’s father, Vincent Cross, had built the organization through port contracts, unions, bribes, and selective violence. He recorded everything by hand because he trusted paper more than telephones.

The ledger disappeared the night Vincent’s car exploded on Harbor Road.

Damian had been twenty-six.

By morning, three captains were dead and two families were at war.

Damian took control before the funeral.

The missing ledger became myth.

Who had it.

Who burned it.

Who killed for it.

Eventually, he stopped searching.

Survival required forward motion.

Now Vivienne’s name sat beside that old wound.

“Rafael,” Damian said.

Marcus nodded.

“I’ll bring him in.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“If Elena was attacked because she followed Rafael, he may already know she found something.”

“So?”

“So we let him think she died.”

Marcus’s expression hardened.

“And Vivienne?”

“She thinks I cancelled a wedding because my assistant disappeared.”

“She’ll know that’s not the whole reason.”

“Yes.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Damian handed him the invoice.

“Check every shipment matching that weight and destination for the last six months.”

“Through customs?”

“Through our private dock logs.”

“If Rafael altered them—”

“Compare fuel records, truck GPS, gate cameras, union overtime.”

Marcus almost smiled.

“You hired Elena too young.”

“She hired herself.”

“What?”

“She corrected three of my accounts in a restaurant after hearing me argue with a bookkeeper.”

Marcus stared.

“You hired a stranger who insulted your accounting?”

“She was right.”

That sounded obvious.

Marcus shook his head.

“Of course.”

The clinic door opened again.

A nurse carried out Elena’s bloodied gray shirt sealed in a plastic bag.

Damian’s eyes caught on one detail near the hem.

A dark red smear.

And beneath it, almost hidden by blood, a silver thread.

Not clothing fiber.

Decorative embroidery.

Damian knew that pattern.

Ashworth security uniforms used silver piping at the cuffs.

He took the bag.

Marcus saw it too.

Neither spoke.

The evidence was not enough.

But it was direction.

Damian’s phone rang again.

This time, Rafael Dorne.

He answered.

“Boss.”

Rafael sounded breathless.

“We’ve got a problem at Pier Nine.”

Damian’s eyes moved to the photograph in his hand.

“What problem?”

“Someone broke into bonded storage.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“What did they take?”

A pause.

“That’s the thing.”

Damian heard rain behind Rafael.

“They didn’t take anything.”

“Then what did they do?”

“They left something.”

Damian’s skin went cold.

“What?”

“A ledger.”

Marcus looked at him.

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Rafael continued.

“Old leather. Your father’s initials on the cover.”