Chapter 4 - The Iron Heart Of Marcus Kane
The black Cadillac glided through the slick, rain-drenched streets of San Francisco like an ominous shadow, its headlights cutting through the heavy fog rolling in from the Pacific. Inside the plush leather interior, the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a switchblade. Lily sat curled up in the massive backseat, fast asleep against Marcus’s shoulder, her wet pink dress dried somewhat by the vehicle's climate control, her small hand still clutching the battered, one-eyed teddy bear.
Marcus sat motionless, staring out the window as the neon signs of the Mission District blurred into streaks of red and green. Derek gripped the steering wheel, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror every few seconds, watching his boss with a mixture of loyalty and deep unease.
"You're making a mistake, Marcus," Derek said, breaking the silence as they turned onto Guerrero Street. "The Oakland crew—the Vane brothers—they've been itching for a turf war since spring. If we hit them over a mechanic’s hospital debt, we’re sending a signal that the Black Crown is softening up. They’ll think you're getting sentimental."
Marcus didn't turn his head. "Let them think whatever they want, Derek. Men who run down a defenseless mechanic on a dark stretch of the 101 because he couldn't pay protection money to their loan-shark front aren't businessmen. They’re animals. And in this city, I am the only one allowed to collect from my debtors."
"Is this about the money or about the kid?" Derek asked bluntly.
Marcus finally turned his gaze away from the window, his slate-gray eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying clarity. "The money is insured, Derek. Ryan Sullivan was never going to pay me two hundred thousand dollars in his lifetime, and we both knew it. His wife’s cancer took everything, and the bankrupted garage was just a shell. But nobody—nobody—cripples one of my accounts without my permission. And nobody leaves a little girl to walk through a SoMa hurricane with fifty-four dollars and twenty cents to fix her father's mistakes."
The car slowed down, turning off the main thoroughfare into a dark, industrial alleyway tucked behind a row of abandoned auto body shops in the industrial sector of Oakland. This was Vane territory—uncharted waters for the Black Crown, a direct incursion into enemy domain.
Through the rain-streaked windshield, a dilapidated brick warehouse loomed large, its windows dark except for a single amber light glowing in the second-floor office. Two heavy-set guards in black leather jackets stood beneath a corrugated metal awning, smoking cigarettes despite the downpour, baseball bats resting against their knees.
"Kill the lights," Marcus ordered softly.
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The Cadillac drifted into the shadows near a rusted dumpster, its engine falling silent. Marcus gently slipped his arm out from under Lily, making sure she was nestled comfortably against the plush leather seat with his cashmere overcoat draped over her small shoulders like a blanket.
"Derek," Marcus said, reaching inside his jacket to pull out a pair of heavy leather gloves. "Let's go collect."
