Chapter 7 - The Ghost at the Bar
It was a rainy Tuesday night when the past decided to walk back through the front doors of the Velvet Room.
The lounge was operating at peak capacity. Soft jazz hummed from the speakers, the scent of citrus oil and artisanal bourbon hung heavy in the air, and I was stationed near the service end of the bar, going over a VIP seating chart with the head host.
Then the heavy oak doors swung open, letting in a gust of cold autumn wind and a figure I hadn’t laid eyes on in months.
Greg Thornton looked like a ghost of his former self. His hair was greasy and uncombed, his cheeks hollowed out beneath stubble, and his oversized raincoat soaked through from the downpour. He hesitated near the hostess stand, blinking against the warm amber light as if he had just crawled out of a sewer.
Before the security guards by the door could even twitch, I held up a hand, stopping them.
“Let him walk,” I instructed quietly.
Greg shuffled across the polished floor, his eyes darting nervously toward the booths. When he spotted me standing by the bar in my tailored charcoal suit, his expression twisted into a wretched mix of humiliation and desperation.
“Lena,” he breathed out, his voice cracking.
“You’re out of your jurisdiction, Greg,” I said, not moving an inch. “The security team has standing orders to call the precinct the moment your shoes cross the threshold.”
“I don't want trouble,” Greg stammered, raising his hands palms up, trembling. “I swear. I just... I need to talk to you. Five minutes. Please.”
I looked at him—really looked at him. The man who had once dug his fingers into my arm, who had sneered at my clothes and threatened my livelihood with a stroke of a pen, was now reduced to a shivering wreck begging for scraps in a bar he used to command.
“You have two minutes,” I said evenly. “Start talking.”
Greg glanced around nervously, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. “It’s Vance. He’s... he’s back in town. But he’s not working alone anymore. He partnered with someone from your old life. Someone who lost everything because of Vanguard.”
My pulse didn’t even spike. I kept my face an absolute mask of stone.
“Who?”
“A developer,” Greg whispered, swallowing hard. “A man named Sterling. He says you ruined his family’s empire, and he’s coming for the Velvet Room. They’re planning a municipal health code raid for Friday night—they paid off the city inspectors.”
A cold, razor-sharp clarity washed over me. Sterling. Arthur Sterling’s former business rivals—or perhaps a distant branch of the corporate wreckage left behind when we dismantled the DuPont-Whitmore syndicate. They thought they could use local bureaucracy as a weapon.
“Thank you for the update, Greg,” I said, my voice smooth as glass.
Greg blinked, surprised. “That’s it? You believe me?”
“I don't need to believe you,” I replied, tapping the face of my Omega watch. “I just needed to know where they were hiding.”
I gestured slightly with two fingers. Marcus materialized from the shadows near the service hall, stepping up behind Greg with two security operatives.
“Escort Mr. Thornton off the property,” I ordered. “Buy him a bus ticket out of Cook County. Make sure he never comes back.”
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“No—wait! You said five minutes!” Greg shrieked as strong hands grabbed him by the arms, hauling him backward toward the exit.
“Your time was up at one minute,” I whispered to the empty air as the heavy doors swung shut behind him.
