Chapter 3 - The Crypt on the Docks
The silence in the master study was broken only by the hiss of the rain against the leaded glass.
Vittorio set his whiskey tumbler on the corner of the desk with a sharp, deliberate click. The easy, fraternal charm vanished from his features, replaced by the calculating, dangerous posture of an apex predator realizing he was standing in the center of a trap.
"Are you interrogating me, Aleandro?" Vittorio asked, his baritone dropping an octave, losing its warmth. "After eleven years? After I took a bullet for your father in Chicago?"
"I am asking a question, Vittorio," Aleandro replied, his hands remaining flat on the leather blotter. "Why was your terminal used to delete forty minutes of camera footage thirty minutes before Elena’s room was found empty?"
Vittorio shook his head, letting out a dry, dismissive breath. "I wasn't at the docks at one in the morning, Aleandro. Anyone could have used that terminal. Marcus Cole’s runners have been sniffing around our perimeter for weeks. If you think I had something to do with a housekeeper walking off—"
"A housekeeper who discovered that twelve million dollars in maritime tariffs were missing from the Red Hook container accounts," Aleandro interrupted softly.
Vittorio went rigid.
Aleandro lifted the shipping ledger, revealing the micro-recorder recovered from Mia’s stuffed rabbit.
He pressed the play button.
A burst of low, mechanical hiss crackled through the study speakers. Then came the sound of rain, followed by the muffled, frantic struggle of a woman gasping for air.
"Let go of me, Vittorio!" Elena’s voice rang through the room, sharp, terrified, yet burning with righteous fury. "I already made three copies of the offshore routing numbers! Aleandro will see them in the morning!"
"Aleandro won't see anything, Elena," Vittorio’s voice responded through the speaker, cold, flat, and chillingly distinct. "You should have kept your eyes on the linen sheets. Go to sleep now. When you wake up, you’ll be in a concrete room where nobody can hear you scream."
The recording clicked off into dead silence.
Vittorio’s right hand moved toward the inside of his suit jacket.
He was fast. He was one of the deadliest gunmen on the East Coast.
Aleandro was faster.
Before Vittorio’s fingers could clear the leather holster beneath his arm, Aleandro lunged across the mahogany desk. His heavy brass paperweight struck Vittorio’s right wrist with concussive, bone-splintering force.
The snub-nosed revolver clattered onto the Persian rug.
Aleandro followed through with his left forearm, driving Vittorio backward over the leather chesterfield, slamming him into the floorboards with crushing, hydraulic power.
Aleandro’s scarred hand clamped around Vittorio’s throat, pinning the lieutenant's head against the oak flooring until the wood groaned beneath the impact.
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"Where is she, Vittorio?" Aleandro whispered, his face inches from his former brother’s, his slate-gray eyes burning with absolute, sovereign wrath. "Tell me where she is before I tear your lungs out through your teeth."
Vittorio choked, blood welling at the corner of his split lip, his eyes wide with cornered dread. "Warehouse... Warehouse Nine... at the old naval yard... sub-basement three... she’s still alive, Aleandro! She’s still alive!"
