Chapter 22 : Structure and Shadows
The warehouse was standing room only.
Twenty-three faces stared at me—some familiar, some new, all waiting. Terry stood at my right shoulder, Big Pat at my left. The organizational chart I'd spent three nights perfecting was pinned to the wall behind me, looking absurd and essential in equal measure.
"Things are changing," I said. "We've grown fast. Too fast for one person to manage everything."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. I caught a few worried glances—change meant uncertainty, and uncertainty in this world usually meant blood.
"Starting today, we have a proper structure. Chain of command. Clear responsibilities." I gestured at the chart. "If I'm not here, you know exactly who makes decisions. If something goes wrong, you know exactly who to report to."
I walked them through it. Terry Mack—officially my second-in-command, with authority to make operational decisions in my absence. Big Pat—head of enforcement, responsible for protection and security across all territories. Julio—logistics and finance, every dollar accounted for. Marcus—communications and intelligence, our eyes and ears.
Carlos, the former East Block leader, would run the eastern section with his integrated crew. The original members from the Marco days would form the core of our central operations.
"Questions?"
One of the newer recruits—a kid named Deon who'd joined after Carlos—raised his hand. "What if Terry says one thing and Pat says another?"
"Terry outranks Pat. But in enforcement matters, Pat has operational authority. Use common sense." I scanned the room. "This isn't complicated. It's just organization. Same thing every legitimate business does, except we're not legitimate."
That got a few laughs. Good. Tension needed release.
"One more thing." I let the room settle. "The code hasn't changed. It will never change. No women who aren't in the game. No kids. Ever. That's not negotiable, no matter who gives the order. Anyone who violates it answers to me personally."
Silence. Nods. Understanding.
"That's all. Terry will coordinate shifts. Get to work."
They dispersed, conversations bubbling as people sorted out the new hierarchy. I watched them go, feeling the strange satisfaction of having built something that could function without me.
"Six weeks ago, I was dying in an alley. Now I have an organization."
Terry appeared at my elbow. "That went well."
"You think so?"
"They respect you. They'll follow the structure because you set it." He paused. "The chart's a nice touch. Very corporate."
"Crime is a business. Might as well run it like one."
We were discussing patrol schedules when the window shattered.
Not shattered—opened. Silently, from the outside, which should have been impossible given we were on the third floor.
Hands went to weapons. Big Pat moved to intercept. Then a voice cut through the tension:
"Easy, boys. I'm friendly."
Selina dropped from the window frame with the grace of a descending shadow. She wore civilian clothes—leather jacket, dark jeans—but moved with that predatory fluidity I'd learned to recognize.
Twenty pairs of eyes fixed on her. Twenty hands hovered near weapons.
"Stand down," I said. "She's with me."
The tension eased, but didn't disappear. Questions in every gaze.
Selina crossed the room like she owned it, stopping in front of me. Her smile was knowing, private.
"Nice operation you've got here." She produced something from her pocket—a phone, small and cheap. "Burn phone. Secure line. In case you want to call."
She pressed it into my hand. Her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary.
"I'll be around."
Then she was gone—back through the window, up the fire escape, vanishing into the gray afternoon like smoke.
The silence stretched.
"Who the hell was that?" Carlos asked.
"A business associate," I said. "Don't worry about it."
Terry caught my eye. His expression said he wasn't buying that answer for a second. But he didn't push—not in front of the others.
I put the phone in my inside pocket. Close to my chest.
That night, I called.
She answered on the third ring. "Took you long enough."
"I had things to wrap up."
"The organizational restructuring." Her voice carried a smile. "How'd it go?"
"How do you know about that?"
"I know things. It's what I do." A pause. "Terry as your second. Good choice. He's loyal."
"You've been watching."
"Always." Something shifted in her tone—warmer, less guarded. "So. You called. Now what?"
Now what, indeed. I sat in my office, the city lights bleeding through the window, holding a phone that connected me to a woman I barely knew and couldn't stop thinking about.
"Now we talk."
"About what?"
"Whatever you want."
She laughed—that genuine sound I'd first heard in the parking garage. "Most men have an agenda when they call."
"I'm not most men."
"So you keep saying."
We talked for two hours. She told me about a potential heist she was considering—a private collector with a Vermeer that might be stolen property to begin with. I told her about the organizational chart and how Terry had laughed until he choked when he saw it.
She asked about my past. I gave her fragments—waking up with nothing, building from scratch, the satisfaction of creating order from chaos. She didn't press for more.
"You're careful," she observed. "With information."
"So are you."
"Fair point." A yawn—genuine, unguarded. "It's late. I should let you sleep."
"Same time tomorrow?"
A pause. "Maybe."
The line went dead.
I sat in the dark office, holding the phone. Something had shifted—not dramatically, but definitively. A door opening. A path becoming visible.
My hand drifted to my pocket, checking that the phone was still there. Still real.
"Gotham is strange. But some parts of it are starting to feel right."
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