Chapter 4 - An Invitation You Cannot Refuse
CRACK.
The gunshot sounded like thunder inside the hollow warehouse.
Adrian moved with impossible speed.
He didn't draw a weapon.
He grabbed my shoulders and violently dragged me downward.
We hit the concrete together.
The bullet sparked off the hood of the Lincoln right where my head had been.
A shower of orange embers rained over my hair.
"Catwalk three!" Leo yelled, drawing a Glock from his shoulder holster.
Three guards opened fire simultaneously.
The deafening roar of automatic gunfire tore the silence apart.
Muzzle flashes strobed against the high metal rafters.
Adrian hovered over me, using his broad shoulders as a human shield.
His breathing remained entirely steady against my cheek.
"Stay flat," he commanded.
"Who are they?!" I screamed over the gunfire.
"Old friends," Adrian replied through clenched teeth.
Above us, metal groans echoed through the roof structure.
A body plummeted from the shadows seventy feet up.
THUD.
The sniper hit the concrete floor twenty yards away.
A heavy, sickening impact.
The gunfire instantly ceased.
Silence returned, thick with the smell of cordite and burned lead.
Leo ran forward, weapon raised, kicking a long-barrel rifle away from the
corpse.
"Clear!" Leo called out.
Adrian stood up slowly.
He offered me his hand again.
My knees were shaking so violently I could barely support my own weight.
I took his hand.
He pulled me up in one effortless motion.
"Are you hit?" he asked, his eyes inspecting my clothes.
"N-no," I stuttered.
"Good."
He walked directly toward the fallen body on the floor.
I followed two steps behind, drawn by morbid terror.
The sniper was dressed in black tactical gear.
No insignia.
Adrian crouched beside the dead man.
He reached down and ripped open the man's tactical vest.
Tattooed across his left collarbone was a distinct mark:
A coiled viper wrapped around a balance scale.
Adrian stared at the ink for three long seconds.
His jaw muscles ticked.
"Castiglione," Adrian murmured.
Leo cursed under his breath. "Sal the Viper? In Brooklyn?"
"He's getting ambitious," Adrian said, rising to his feet.
He looked at me.
"Sal Castiglione controls the Philadelphia riverfront."
"The man who ran the docks where Danny worked," I breathed.
"The man who pulled the trigger on your brother," Adrian confirmed.
A cold rage, sharp and terrifying, cut through my panic.
Three years I spent weeping in the dark.
Three years wondering what faceless monster had stolen my only family.
Now he had a name.
Sal the Viper.
"Why is he here?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
"Because of you," Adrian said simply.
"Me?"
"Sal knew Danny had an emergency contact."
"He knew Danny had a system."
"When you wrote 317 at my table, you didn't just save my life."
Adrian walked toward the heavy steel security doors leading into the office
annex.
"You tripped Sal's wire."
"He had eyes inside the Blue Anchor."
"The denim jacket," I realized.
"Vincenzo," Adrian said. "One of Sal’s collectors."
"He called Sal the minute you passed that bill."
Adrian pushed the heavy security door open.
Inside was a brightly lit, sterile command room.
Monitors covered the walls, streaming feeds from across New York harbor.
A mahogany desk sat in the center.
Leather chairs.
A pot of fresh coffee sat on a side credenza.
Adrian walked behind the desk.
He poured two cups.
He slid one toward the edge.
"Sit," he said.
I didn't sit.
I stood in front of the massive desk, crossing my arms over my chest.
"You said Danny left a ledger."
"He did," Adrian replied, taking a slow sip.
"What's in it?"
"Evidence that connects Sal Castiglione to six federal judges, three port
commissioners, and eighty million dollars in stolen freight."
Adrian set his cup down with a sharp clack.
"And the location of Sal’s private offshore holdings."
"If that ledger becomes public, Sal doesn't just go to prison."
"His own bosses put a bullet in his skull to keep him quiet."
"Then why didn't Danny take it to the FBI?" I demanded.
"Because the FBI was in Sal's pocket," Adrian replied coldly.
"Danny realized that thirty minutes before they ambushed him."
"He had nowhere to run."
"So he hid the book."
Adrian leaned forward, his steel-gray eyes locking onto mine with absolute
intensity.
"And he gave you the key."
"He didn't give me anything!" I shouted. "Look at me! I lived in a
roach-infested box in Crown Heights! I wore thrift store coats! If I had eighty
million dollars or a key to a safe, do you think I'd be pouring burnt coffee at
midnight?!"
Adrian didn't blink.
"Danny didn't give you a key made of brass, Emily."
"He gave you a memory."
My throat went dry.
"A memory?"
"Three days before Danny died, he called me from a payphone," Adrian said.
"He told me: 'If I don't make it to Friday, Emily has the answer. She won't know
she has it until you ask her the right question.'"
My head began to spin.
The room tilted.
Danny sitting at our kitchen table when we were kids.
Danny fixing my bicycle chain.
Danny teaching me how to change a flat tire.
“Pay attention, Em. Details keep you alive.”
"What was the question?" I whispered.
Adrian stood up from behind the desk.
He walked around the mahogany wood until he stood two feet away from me.
He reached out.
His fingers gently touched the pocket of my jacket.
Right where Danny's silver pocketknife rested.
"The question," Adrian said, his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, "is what
did Danny engrave on the inside of that bone handle?"
My heart stopped.
I had carried that knife for three years.
I had used it to cut fruit.
To open cardboard delivery boxes.
I had never opened the inner casing.
"Give it to me," Adrian commanded softly.
I reached slowly into my pocket.
My fingers gripped the bone handle.
I pulled it out.
Before I could hand it to him, the main security alarms began to shriek.
Red emergency lights strobed across the ceiling.
Leo burst through the office doors, a submachine gun slung across his chest.
"Boss!" Leo yelled.
"What is it?" Adrian snapped, spinning around.
"The perimeter gate just collapsed!" Leo shouted. "Three black vans! Heavy
weapons!"
Through the plate glass windows overlooking the warehouse floor, we saw them.
Dozens of armed men in tactical gear swarming out of the vehicles.
And leading them was a man with slicked-back silver hair and a sharp tailored
suit.
Sal "The Viper" Castiglione.
Sal held a megaphone to his lips.
May you like
His voice echoed through the metal rafters like a funeral dirch.
"Adrian! Send out the little girl, and maybe I let you die in your own bed!"
