Chapter 4 - The Foundry on River StreetThe restructuring of Thorne Logistics did not happen quietly behind closed doors; it hit the Midwest transportation sector like a freight train barreling down an unlit track.
By Monday morning, federal marshals accompanied by Christian’s private security detail had seized all administrative records, bank accounts, and dispatch terminals associated with Vance Logistics across four states. Giles Vance was quietly arraigned on federal wire fraud and elder abuse charges before he could even call a bail bondsman.
Meanwhile, my life had relocated from the drafty ticket booth to a sunlit corner office on the thirty-second floor. Yet, despite my new title as Director of Terminal Operations, I spent most of my evenings down in the industrial sector, working alongside the maintenance crews and union reps to overhaul the rotting infrastructure of the transit hubs.
On a crisp Tuesday afternoon, Christian’s black sedan dropped us off at the historic River Street Foundry on the west side—a sprawling brick monolith that had served as the beating heart of the city’s heavy freight network since the 1920s.
The air inside the cavernous building smelled of hot machine oil, welding sparks, and damp coal dust. Dozens of mechanics and ironworkers paused from their work as Christian walked through the bay doors, nodding respectfully to the older foremen who had served alongside his father.
“This is where it all started, Sarah,” Christian said, walking beside me down the central gantry walkway. He pointed up at an overhead crane bearing an iron plaque stamped Thorne & Sons 1948. “My grandfather built this foundry with his bare hands. He believed that a city is only as strong as the roads it paves and the trains it keeps running on time.”
“And the men who tried to steal it?” I asked, looking up at the towering steel girders.
“They forgot that iron doesn't bend easily,” Christian replied, his voice laced with quiet intensity. “They thought my aunt’s disappearance meant the Thorne bloodline had run dry. They didn't realize that sometimes, a single eleven-dollar ticket is all it takes to trip the breaker.”
As we rounded the corner toward the administrative office, a sharp, aggressive voice echoed across the open floor.
“I don’t care who your new corporate backers are! This foundry owes back tariffs to the regional port commission, and until those fees are paid in full, we’re slapping a lien on every locomotive in this yard!”
Standing by the dispatcher’s desk was Marcus Vance—Giles’s older cousin and the regional commissioner for the Great Lakes Trade Authority. He was a bloated, sweating man in an expensive camel-hair coat, waving a thick sheaf of legal notices in the face of an elderly shop steward.
Christian stopped in his tracks. The temperature around us seemed to drop twenty degrees.
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Without a word, Christian walked straight toward the commissioner, his tall, imposing frame blocking the doorway like a granite monolith.
“Commissioner Vance,” Christian said, his voice dangerously soft. “You’re trespassing on private property.”
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