Chapter 4 - The Bait in the Net
By 3:00 PM, the storm clouds over Brooklyn broke into a cold, torrential downpour that rattled against the bakery windows.
Downstairs, the ovens were cranking out loaves of sourdough and rye, the heavy scent of baking bread rising through the floorboards. But inside the apartment, the atmosphere was as taut as a bowstring.
Vincent Castellano sat at the head of the dining table, watching three computer screens that had been set up by his private security team. The screens displayed live feeds from the security cameras surrounding Castellano’s Diner, the subway entrances on 4th Avenue, and the street corner outside the bakery.
"He’s not going to walk into the diner again," Vincent said, tracing his thumb along his silver cane. "He knows the police are watching the counter. He knows Lawson talked. Fletcher is a coward who plays at being a mastermind. He will go where he thinks you are weakest."
"My old walk-up," I said, sitting opposite him. "My lease on 12th Street. I left my spare keys and some old mail there."
"Detective Morales has two unmarked cars sitting on 12th Street," Vincent said. "Fletcher drove past the block twice twenty minutes ago. He saw the antennas on the unmarked sedans. He didn't stop."
"So where does he think I am?" I asked.
Vincent gave a cold, thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. "He thinks you are right here. Because twenty minutes ago, Angela made a very public phone call from the diner’s landline to a local pharmacy, ordering painkillers to be delivered to the bakery apartment for 'Amelia’s severe head injury.'"
I stared at him. "You laid a trap."
"I laid a net," Vincent corrected softly. "A trap is built to kill. A net is built to hold something filthy until the authorities arrive to haul it away."
The encrypted phone sitting on the table suddenly buzzed, vibrating violently against the polished wood.
An unknown number from an Albany area code.
The room went dead silent.
Detective Morales, sitting in the corner with a headset on, gave me a sharp nod, pointing a finger down to signal that the line was being recorded and traced by the precinct’s tech unit.
I took a deep breath, pressed the speaker button, and set the phone down.
"Hello?" I said, keeping my voice raspy, high, and weak—the sound of the broken girl Raymond thought he owned.
Silence stretched across the line for three agonizing seconds. Then came the sound of a light rain hitting a car roof, followed by a voice I had heard in my nightmares for four years.
"You always were pathetic when you got hurt, Amelia," Raymond’s smooth, arrogant voice echoed into the quiet room.
My grip tightened on the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white, but I forced my voice to stay small. "Raymond... what do you want?"
"I wanted to save you," Raymond scoffed, his tone thick with fake disappointment and sickening condescension. "I sent a gentleman to bring you to me safely, and what did you do? You made a scene in a trashy grease-bucket. You brought the police into our personal family business."
"You paid a man to break my face!" I choked out, letting fake panic bleed into my tone.
"I paid a man to break your pride!" Raymond snapped, his composure slipping into the familiar, terrifying rage I knew so well. "You ran out on your marriage, Amelia! You left me to deal with the debts, the house, the shame! You belong to me! You signed those loan documents four years ago, and you are going to finish what you started!"
"I didn't sign anything," I said quietly. "You forged my name, Raymond. The DA knows. The FBI knows."
A harsh, metallic chuckle came through the speaker.
"The DA doesn't know where you are going to be in ten minutes, sweetheart," Raymond whispered darkly. "Look out your front window."
My blood went instantly cold.
Vincent didn't panic. He flicked his eyes toward the laptop screen showing the street view outside the bakery.
Parked directly across the narrow street, blocking an alleyway between two brick buildings, was a black commercial delivery van. Its engine was idling, exhaust piping into the cold rain.
May you like
Raymond was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring straight up at the second-floor window where the curtains were pulled shut.
"You have two minutes to come down those stairs and get into this van, Amelia," Raymond said, his voice dropping into a flat, terrifying promise. "If you don't, I drop a single flame into the basement fuel line of this bakery. The whole block goes up in five minutes. Let's see how much your mafia friends like you when their bread shop is burning."
