The heavy mist of the Los Angeles harbor clung to the hull of the sleek Mercedes C300 as it glided to a halt. The engine's low hum died out, replaced by the rhythmic, haunting slap of dark water against concrete. Damian peered through the windshield at the massive private dock, a sprawling labyrinth of steel and shadows owned by F&V Enterprise Inc.
This wasn't just a place of business; it was a graveyard for secrets. Damian hadn't stepped foot here in a decade—not since he was a young man shadowing his father, Lewis Thorn. Back then, the air had smelled of the same salt and grease, a scent that now triggered a cold, visceral memory of power plays and blood-stained handshakes.
He stepped out of the car, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight. He looked every bit the phantom—sleek, flawless, and utterly immovable.
