Chapter 3 - The Setup at Pier 42
“I wasn't at my desk at four yesterday, Carlo,” I said, stepping past Roman. The fear that had paralyzed me moments ago hardened into sheer rage. “You sent me down to basement storage with a dead radio. You told me the quarterly logs had to be organized by hand.”
Carlo scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “I don't keep track of your bathroom breaks, Tessa. The digital fingerprint is linked to your terminal. Roman, with all due respect, you can’t let sentiment cloud your judgment. Her brother is drowning in debt. People do desperate things when they're cornered.”
“Enough,” Roman said. The word fell like an iron hammer. The office went dead quiet.
Roman walked over to Carlo, towering over his underboss. He reached out, took the ledger from Carlo’s grip, and dropped it into the wastebasket without glancing at a single page.
“If Tessa wanted to rob me, she wouldn't take twenty thousand,” Roman said, his voice deadly calm. “She manages accounts with eight figures. If she were a thief, she’d be in Switzerland right now, not splitting a bowl of soup in a walk-up apartment.”
Carlo stiffened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “You followed her?”
“I do what is necessary to protect this family,” Roman replied. “Which brings me to our next problem. Julian Vance is back in Manhattan. And he’s watching Tessa’s apartment.”
Carlo blinked, recovering his composure with terrifying speed. “Moretti’s butcher? If he’s sniffing around our personnel, he’s hunting for leverage against you. We should move her and the kid to a safehouse immediately.”
“No safehouses,” Roman countered. “A safehouse confirms to Moretti that she matters to me. If they know she’s important, she becomes a target. We keep her routines normal, but she doesn't go anywhere without armed escorts in plainclothes.” Roman turned back to me. “Starting today, you stay by my side. Everywhere.”
“Roman, I have to go home to Leo,” I pleaded, my voice breaking. “He can't feed himself when his tremors act up. He needs me.”
“Your brother is currently being transferred to the Presidio Neurological Pavilion in Midtown under private armed guard,” Roman said, his tone leaving zero room for negotiation. “He will have around-the-clock specialists, physical therapists, and three armed men outside his door disguised as hospital orderly staff. He is safer there than anywhere in this city.”
Tears burned my eyes. Relief and terror collided in my chest. He had shielded my brother, but in doing so, he had pulled me completely into the center of the web.
“Now,” Roman said, turning to Carlo. “The shipment from Rotterdam docks at Pier 42 tonight at midnight. The manifest needs a second set of eyes before customs clears the containers. Tessa is coming with us.”
Carlo’s eyes flared with protest. “Boss, bringing a civilian to the docks? That’s sensitive business.”
“Tessa is my secretary,” Roman said coldly. “She reads every manifest before you do anyway. Prepare the convoy.”
Two hours later, a black Lincoln Navigator rolled through the rusted iron gates of Pier 42. Fog rolled off the Hudson River, thick as smoke, smelling of salt, rust, and diesel fuel. Roman sat beside me in the rear seat, his hand resting near the shoulder holster beneath his overcoat.
The pier was eerily deserted. Only two halogen floodlights illuminated the towering stacks of shipping containers.
“Where are the dock workers?” I murmured, my instincts screaming that something was wrong.
Roman leaned forward, tapping the driver’s partition. “Marcus, stop the car.”
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Before the driver could hit the brakes, a heavy steel shipping crane swung overhead. With a deafening groan of metal, a forty-foot container dropped from thirty feet above, smashing directly onto the hood of our lead escort vehicle, crushing the engine block into scrap metal.
Gunfire erupted from the shadows between the container stacks.
