Chapter 4 - The Underground Table
The basement beneath the neon-lit herbal shop in Chinatown smelled of damp concrete, stale cigarette smoke, and old money.
The poker room was packed with smoke so thick it hung in amber layers beneath the low industrial ceiling. Around the circular felt-topped table sat four men whose faces were etched into the city's criminal underworld: corrupt union bosses, low-level mob enforcers, and at the center of it all, Lev Berman—Viktor’s primary financial wizard, a man whose tailored silk suit looked entirely out of place in a room stained with grease and paranoia.
Lev pushed a stack of high-denomination chips forward, a smug, greasy smile plastered across his thin lips as he surveyed his hand.
“I think,” Lev drawled in his thick Russian accent, “that the Thorne syndicate’s glory days are officially numbered. Robert Croft knows where all their bodies are buried. By sunrise, those shipping lanes belong to us.”
The men around the table chuckled nervously, tossing in their cards.
Before Lev could reach out to rake in the pot, the heavy steel door at the top of the basement stairs didn't just open—it blew inward with a deafening crash.
The reinforced hinges screamed as they ripped out of the concrete wall, sending dust and debris showering over the poker table.
Instantly, every man at the table scrambled for the holsters tucked beneath their suit jackets, but before their fingers could even graze leather, the room was flooded with blinding tactical light.
“Stay where you are!” Silas’s voice boomed through the basement like a thunderclap.
Four armed enforcers poured down the concrete steps, assault rifles leveled with absolute, terrifying precision. They moved with the synchronized grace of a military black-ops unit, flanking the room and cutting off every exit.
And then, stepping casually through the shattered doorway, came Dominic Thorne.
He wore a dark charcoal overcoat, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His face was a mask of cold, unyielding granite. The ambient light caught the sharp angles of his jawline as he walked slowly toward the poker table, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the ruined floorboards.
Lev Berman went completely white, his hands hovering inches from the green felt.
“D-Dominic?” Lev stammered, his voice pitching an octave higher. “You... you shouldn't be here. This is a private game—”
“A private game funded by stolen ledgers and borrowed time,” Dominic interrupted softly. He pulled his hands from his pockets, resting his knuckles on the edge of the poker table, leaning in close until his dark eyes locked onto the terrified accountant.
“D-Dominic, listen,” Lev sputtered, sweat beading instantly along his hairline. “I’m just an employee. I follow orders from Viktor. Whatever Croft told you—it’s business, nothing personal!”
“Nothing is ever personal, Lev,” Dominic said, his tone dangerously quiet. “That’s the mistake amateurs make. They think blood makes a family. They think a ring makes a marriage. They think a few stolen shipping manifests make an empire.”
Dominic reached down, picked up Lev’s stack of high-value chips, and let them cascade slowly back onto the felt one by one.
“Where are the offshore hard drives?” Dominic asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Lev lied, his voice cracking violently.
Dominic didn't raise his voice. He didn't blink. He simply nodded slightly toward Silas.
Silas stepped forward, pulled a heavy tactical combat knife from his belt, and slammed the blade directly through the center of Lev’s hand, pinning the expensive silk cuff and the flesh of his palm straight into the wooden table.
Lev let out a shriek that rattled the ceiling pipes, his eyes rolling back in sheer, unadulterated agony as blood began to pool rapidly across the green felt.
“Where are the hard drives, Lev?” Dominic repeated, his voice as smooth as glass.
“The safe!” Lev wailed, tears streaming down his face as he choked on his own terror. “Behind the painting in the back office! The combination is Thorne’s birthdate—ironically! Just take it! Take everything!”
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Dominic didn't even look at the bleeding hand. He simply straightened his coat, nodded to Silas to retrieve the drives, and turned toward the stairs.
“Tell Viktor,” Dominic muttered over his shoulder as he walked toward the exit, “that if he wants my shipping lanes, he can come try to take them himself. But he better bring more than a crooked accountant and a discarded bride.”
