Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Baltic Line
The air in the small office instantly became suffocating. Dawson stepped inside, his boots leaving wet, muddy tracks on the clean hardwood floor. He didn't look at Sienna; his eyes were locked onto Victor like a predator tracking a target.
"You're in the wrong office, Victor," Dawson said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous whisper.
Victor didn't seem intimidated, though he took a subtle step back, placing the desk between himself and Dawson. "Dawson. I was just telling your lovely lady here about the outstanding debt. Twelve million. The syndicate wants its money, or the cargo that was supposed to be in those containers."
"The cargo was burned," Dawson said flatly. "I burned it myself. Five miles out in the lake. There is no cargo. And there is no money."
"Then you have a very big problem," Victor replied, adjusting his cuffs. "Because the people I represent do not accept losses. They are not like your father, Dawson. They don't care about family names or old loyalties. They are ghosts. And they will dismantle everything you’ve built, brick by brick, starting with this pathetic little attempt at a legitimate life."
Dawson moved so fast it didn't seem human. In a fraction of a second, he had crossed the room, his massive hand wrapping around Victor’s throat, slamming him hard against the brick wall. The framed pictures on the wall rattled, and a glass vase on Sienna's desk shattered as Victor’s umbrella clattered to the floor.
"Let him go, Dawson!" Sienna cried out, standing up. "If you kill him here, it’s over! The police, the investigation—everything we worked for!"
Dawson’s muscles were locked, his face twisted in a mask of pure, violent rage. Victor gasped for air, his feet dangling inches off the ground, his face turning a deep, bruised purple. For a terrifying moment, Sienna thought Dawson was going to break his neck right there.
"Dawson, look at me," Sienna said, her voice dropping from a panic to a calm, steady command. She walked around the desk and placed her small hands over his massive, straining forearm. "Look at me, Dawson. Drink the tap water."
The words acted like a physical anchor. Dawson’s eyes flickered, the wild, bloodshot madness slowly receding as he looked down at her. He let out a ragged breath and released his grip. Victor collapsed to the floor, coughing violently, clutching his throat.
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"Get out," Dawson whispered. "If I see you or your car near this building again, I won't use my hands. I’ll use a shovel."
Victor scrambled to his feet, his composure entirely shattered. He didn't say another word as he fled the office, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him.
