Chapter 4 - The Poison in the Ledger
The satellite phone on my desk buzzed, vibrating against the mahogany wood with a low, aggressive hum.
I picked it up on the first ring.
“Boss,” Marcus’s voice came through the encrypted line, crisp and steady. “We’ve secured Miss Chloe and the girls in the transport convoy. They’re heading east toward the Southampton safehouse as we speak. Two armored suburban units are riding shotgun. Nobody gets within a mile of them.”
“Good,” I said, leaning back in my leather chair, staring out at the manicured lawns bathed in silver moonlight. “Did you spot anything unusual on the perimeter sensors before you left?”
A brief pause crackled over the line.
“Actually, Boss… that’s why I’m calling,” Marcus said, his tone shifting into professional caution. “Reviewing the gate logs from three hours ago. Someone used a secondary override code to access the west service entrance. A code that hasn't been active since the day of Mrs. Russo’s funeral.”
My grip on the phone tightened until the plastic casing creaked.
“Whose code was it, Marcus?”
“Victor Vance’s,” Marcus replied quietly. “He logged in at 2:15 PM, spent roughly twenty minutes inside the main house, and left before your convoy pulled through the front gates.”
Victor.
The man who had practically raised me when I took over my father’s syndicate at twenty-four. The man who had held my trembling hand when we buried Isabella. The man who sat across from me at our mahogany dining table every Sunday eating roast beef and discussing municipal real estate acquisitions.
“Where is he now?” I asked, my voice dangerously low.
“According to his digital footprint, he’s currently hosting a private dinner at the Manhattan Athletic Club with Senator Richard Vance and a few high-ranking port authority officials,” Marcus said. “Standard lobbying circuit. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Cancel the lobbying circuit,” I stood up, my coat whispering against the chair. “Call the strike team. I want three unmarked units at the Manhattan Athletic Club in twenty minutes. Do not let Victor leave the building. If he so much as steps out onto the sidewalk, put him in a trunk.”
“Understood, Boss. We’re moving.”
May you like
I clicked the phone shut, slipped it into my inner pocket, and reached down to check the spare magazine in my holster. The clock on the wall read 8:45 PM.
By midnight, either Victor Vance would give me the name of every co-conspirator who helped him sell my family out to the Mendoza cartel, or I would personally feed him to the sharks off Montauk Point.
