Chapter 2 - The Switching Shack at Oak Island
The Oak Island rail yard in Newark smelled of rusted iron, damp creosote, and freezing Atlantic fog.
The switching shack was an abandoned brick structure perched on an embankment above the freight tracks, its wooden door hanging crooked on rusted hinges. Inside, the only light came from the distant amber sodium floodlights of the container cranes three miles east.
Dominic pushed the door open with a gentle, deliberate touch.
In the far corner, huddled beneath an oily canvas locomotive tarp on a pile of dry wooden pallets, was eight-year-old Mia Vance.
She was shivering violently, her split sneaker pulled up against her chest, her small hands clutching a heavy, water-damaged leather ledger tied shut with electrical wire. Beside her sat a half-eaten sleeve of saltine crackers and a small, cracked plastic flashlight with dying batteries.
When the silhouette of a tall man in a dark overcoat filled the doorway, Mia scrambled backward, her breath catching in a terrified, high-pitched gasp as she raised a rusted railroad spike in her right hand.
"Stay away from me!" she cried, her voice cracking against the cold. "Uncle Julian said the police are watching the yard!"
Dominic did not advance.
He slowly lowered his six-foot-three frame onto one knee onto the dirty floorboards, five paces away from the child. He unbuttoned his heavy cashmere coat, laying it open, keeping his empty hands resting flat on his knees where she could see every line on his palms.
"My name is Dominic, Mia," he said softly.
His voice carried none of the harsh, commanding edge that made federal prosecutors look at their shoes. It was warm, low, and anchored by an unshakeable protective gravity.
"You caught my sleeve at the airport yesterday afternoon," Dominic continued. "You told me the plane was going to come apart in the sky. You saved my life, Mia, and the lives of my crew."
Mia lowered the railroad spike by an inch. Her wide, hazel eyes searched his face through the gloom, taking in the soot still clinging to his collar and the calm, steady gaze of his gray eyes.
"You're the golden boy," she whispered, her lip trembling. "The man from the picture."
"I am Dominic," he repeated gently. "Where is your mother, Mia?"
Tears cut clean, glistening paths through the grime on the little girl's cheeks. She clutched the heavy leather ledger against her ribs with both arms, her small body shaking with a raw, shuddering sob.
"Two men came to our kitchen on Tuesday night," Mia wept. "They broke Mommy's laptop and dragged her down the stairs by her hair. Mommy threw this book out the window into the bushes and screamed for me to run through the fire escape. She told me that if anything happened to her, I had to find Dominic Moretti at the private airfield because he was the only man who wouldn't sell our name."
Dominic felt a cold wire wrap tight around his heart.
He stood up, crossed the distance between them with slow, measured strides, and wrapped his massive overcoat around Mia’s freezing shoulders, scooping her up into his arms.
Her head fell against the hollow of his neck, her cold forehead pressing against his pulse point as her arms locked around his collar.
"Nobody is going to hurt you again, Mia," Dominic whispered into her hair. "And nobody is going to touch your mother."
He carried the child down the embankment to the waiting SUV, where Anton stood with the door open and the heater humming at full blast.
"Anton," Dominic spoke as he settled Mia into the leather seat.
May you like
"Yes, Boss?"
"Call Dr. Robert Sterling to the estate. Seal the north wing for pediatric trauma care. And tell Arthur Ross to bring the unsealed 2024 Delaware shipping trusts to my desk."
