Chapter 2 - The Missing Forty Minutes
Aleandro sat behind his walnut desk, the micro-recorder resting silently on his leather blotter beside his gold Montblanc pen. He pulled the leather-bound shipping ledger over the device just as a firm knock sounded on the double study doors.
"Enter," Aleandro said.
Vittorio Serra stepped into the room, shaking the rain from his dark wool overcoat before hanging it on the brass stand by the door. At forty-four, Vittorio looked like an ancient Roman gladiator tailored by Milanese master craftsmen: broad-shouldered, thick-necked, with dark hair silvering at the temples and a smile that had disarmed rival caporegimes from Manhattan to Naples.
"Terrible weather on the expressway, Aleandro," Vittorio said, walking forward with an outstretched hand and an easy, fraternal warmth. "The customs inspectors at Terminal Four cleared the Italian container manifests without an audit. Our cargo is moving."
Aleandro took Vittorio’s hand, feeling the calloused palm that had fired weapons beside him for eleven years. He held the grip for three seconds longer than customary.
"Good work, Vittorio," Aleandro said calmly. "Sit down. Pour yourself two fingers of the Macallan."
Vittorio walked to the crystal decanter on the sideboard, splashing the amber liquor into a heavy tumbler. "You look tired, brother. Any news from the field teams in Jersey? Did they locate Elena?"
"Nothing in Jersey," Aleandro replied, his slate-gray eyes fixed on the back of Vittorio’s neck. "The credit cards are cold. Her bank accounts haven't registered an ATM withdrawal since the night she walked out."
Vittorio took a slow sip, turning around with an expression of weary, affectionate concern. "I told you, Aleandro. She was overwhelmed. Raising a child alone in this house, surrounded by armed guards and the tensions of the business... some women crack under the weight. She probably found an old boyfriend in Pennsylvania. She’ll surface when her cash runs dry."
"Elena didn't have an old boyfriend in Pennsylvania, Vittorio," Aleandro said softly. "Her entire family was wiped out in the Calabria feud twenty years ago. She had nobody in this world except her daughter. And me."
Vittorio paused with the glass halfway to his lips, a micro-flicker of tension passing through his jaw before he smoothed it over with a practiced smile. "Of course. We all cared for her. But you can't predict human weakness."
"No," Aleandro agreed, leaning back in his chair. "You can't."
He tapped a key on his private terminal. The large monitor mounted on the east wall illuminated, displaying the security perimeter logs from January 12th—the night Elena vanished.
"I had Marco run a deep diagnostic on the camera servers this morning, Vittorio," Aleandro said, his voice dropping into a register of icy stillness. "At 1:15 AM on the twelfth, Camera Nine—the one covering the carriage house service alley—suffered a digital frame drop. Exactly forty minutes of optical telemetry were purged from the local hard drive."
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Vittorio’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his posture remained relaxed. "Camera Nine has been failing for months. The salt air off the sound corrodes the optical relays. I told the technician to replace the junction box last month."
"The junction box was fine, Vittorio," Aleandro said, his gray eyes locking onto his lieutenant’s face like two iron clamps. "The purge command was executed internally. From the terminal in your private office at the docks."
