Chapter 8 - THE TRUTH IN THE TRUNK
The woodstove crackled, throwing amber diamonds of light across the cedar floor.
I sat in the deep leather armchair, my feet tucked beneath the wool blanket.
My right arm rested in a fresh, professional fiberglass splint I had molded from the boathouse medical cabinet.
The pain had dulled to a manageable thrum.
Matteo stood by the worktable, slicing crusty rye bread and sharp white cheddar with his pocket knife.
He had pulled on a clean black cashmere sweater and dark jeans.
He looked restored.
Lethal.
He brought a wooden cutting board to the table between our chairs, along with two steaming mugs of black tea.
“Eat,” he said, sitting across from me.
“Shock burns through glucose faster than blood loss.”
I took a piece of bread and cheese.
The food tasted incredible after eighteen hours of adrenaline and iron.
“Where is Dominic’s car?” I asked between bites.
“In the carriage shed,” Matteo said.
“I’m going to search the trunk now.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“You’re resting.”
“I’m the auditor, Matteo,” I said, meeting his gaze over the rim of my mug.
“You know how to put a bullet through a man’s engine block.”
“I know how to read the paper trail that proves who paid for the bullet.”
He looked at me for three seconds.
The corners of his lips curved into that rare, dangerous smirk.
“You really don't take orders well, do you?”
“Never have.”
We walked down the covered stone breezeway to the carriage house.
The cold ocean wind whipped our clothes, but inside the timber shed, it was dry and still.
Dominic’s black Mercedes sat in the center of the dirt floor, dust coating its glossy finish.
Matteo used the silver key to pop the electronic trunk release.
The lid lifted with a soft hydraulic hiss.
Inside lay two leather duffel bags, a locked aluminum briefcase, and a spare tire.
Matteo unzipped the first duffel bag.
Stacks of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in federal bank bands filled the interior.
Fifty-thousand-dollar bricks.
At least two million dollars in cash.
“The union pension funds,” I murmured, touching the federal paper bands.
“Stolen from the South Boston longshoremen.”
Matteo ignored the cash.
He reached for the aluminum briefcase.
It was secured with a three-digit mechanical dial and a biometric fingerprint scanner.
Matteo drew his pocket knife.
He wedged the carbon steel blade into the seam beside the electronic latch.
With one brutal, twisting heave of his broad shoulder, the titanium hinge sheared with a sharp CRACK.
The briefcase sprang open.
Inside lay three blue folders stamped: UNITED STATES MARITIME ADMINISTRATION.
And beneath them lay a black velvet jewelry box.
Matteo picked up the blue folders and handed them to me.
I opened the first file.
My breath caught in my throat.
“These aren't just shipping manifests, Matteo.”
“What are they?”
“They’re bills of sale,” I said, scanning the typed lines.
“Sal Moretti didn't just buy the shipping containers.”
“He bought the leases to all five municipal drydocks in Boston Harbor.”
“Signed by City Councilman Thomas Gable.”
“And who approved the transfer?” Matteo asked.
I turned the page.
The signature at the bottom made my blood freeze.
“Dominic Vane... acting as proxy for Matteo Rossi.”
Matteo’s jaw hardened into slate.
“Dominic legally signed away my family’s entire maritime empire three weeks ago.”
“He used my power of attorney while I was in Chicago.”
“To the city, it looks like you sold the docks to a known cartel front,” I said.
“The federal government will seize every crane, every warehouse, and every vessel you own by noon tomorrow.”
Matteo set his jaw.
He reached into the briefcase and picked up the black velvet jewelry box.
He snapped the lid back with his thumb.
Inside lay a heavy gold signet ring.
Carved into the face was a soaring hawk perched on an anchor.
The crest of the Rossi family.
The ring had belonged to his father.
Dominic had stolen it from Matteo’s private safe to authenticate the fraudulent dock transfers.
Matteo stared at the ring for a long moment.
He slipped it onto the pinky finger of his left hand.
The gold fit perfectly.
“Pier 4,” Matteo whispered.
“The Northern Star docks at ten tonight.”
“If those missile containers are loaded onto that vessel, the coast guard will board the ship under federal authority.”
“And I become an international terrorist on every television in America.”
He looked at me.
His amber eyes burned with an icy, absolute resolve.
“We don't call the police, Clara.”
“The police are on Gable’s payroll.”
“Then who do we call?” I asked.
Matteo smiled.
May you like
A cold, wolfish grin that belonged to a king about to burn his own kingdom to the ground.
“We call the longshoremen.”
