Chapter 4 - Shadows Behind the Silk
While the car sped through the dark streets toward the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, my phone buzzed in my coat pocket.
It was an internal house line notification from the Romano estate security system.
Someone was trying to access the master safe in Don Salvatore’s private bedroom.
“Mr. Romano,” I said immediately, showing him the screen. “Someone is in your father’s quarters.”
Vincent looked at the security feed.
The camera showed Celeste Marchesi pacing frantically across Don Salvatore’s old bedroom.
She had an open suitcase on the four-poster bed.
She was typing codes into the wall keypad behind the oil painting of Don Salvatore’s mother.
“She’s looking for the bearer bonds,” Vincent said calmly.
“Should I turn the car around, boss?” Marco asked, gripping the steering wheel.
“No,” Vincent replied. “She doesn't know the master combination. The safe has a secondary biometric lock that only responds to my father’s prints—and mine. Let her dig her own grave. We stick to the plan.”
Vincent turned to me.
“Grace, you have been with us for six months. Why did you bring Ada’s lasagna to the table tonight when Celeste ordered you to throw it away?”
I looked Vincent in the eye.
“Because my grandmother was a house cleaner, Mr. Romano. She worked sixty hours a week for forty years. When she retired, the family she worked for didn't even say goodbye. When I saw Ada standing in that hallway holding that warm tin, I saw my grandmother. Food made with that kind of love doesn't belong next to a sink.”
Vincent stared at me for a long moment.
A faint, respectful smile touched the corner of his lips.
“My father used to say that you can judge a man's character not by how he treats his equals, but by how he treats the people who serve his food.”
He looked out the window at the rain hammering the glass.
“I was blind. I thought Celeste was marrying me to unite two respected families. But she saw this estate as nothing more than a carcass to pick clean.”
Twenty minutes later, our convoy of three black SUVs pulled into an industrial district along the waterfront in Red Hook.
The warehouse sat near the pier, surrounded by rusted shipping containers.
Yellow floodlights illuminated a sign: MARCHESI LOGISTICS & EXPORTS.
Two guards in heavy black parkas stood by the main rolling door.
As soon as our SUVs came to a stop, Marco and four Romano security men stepped out into the rain.
The guards reached for their jackets.
“Don't even think about it,” Marco’s voice boomed over the sound of the falling rain.
Within five seconds, the two guards were disarmed, their hands pinned against the wet brick wall.
Vincent stepped out of the vehicle and walked into the warehouse.
Inside, the vast space was filled with wooden crates, luxury cars awaiting overseas shipment, and high-end antique furniture.
In the center of the warehouse, sitting at a glass table with two bodyguards, was Enzo Marchesi.
Enzo was twenty-six, slicked-back hair, wearing a custom designer bomber jacket and gold chains.
He was counting stacks of hundred-dollar bills under a bright halogen desk lamp.
When the metal door crashed open and Vincent walked in, Enzo jumped up, knocking his chair over.
“Vincent?” Enzo stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward his bodyguards.
The two bodyguards reached for their holsters.
Click.
Marco and three Romano men raised suppressed pistols, aiming them dead center at the guards' chests.
“Hands flat on the table,” Marco commanded.
The guards slowly raised their hands, backing away.
Vincent walked up to the glass table.
He didn't draw a weapon.
He didn't need to.
The sheer presence of Vincent Romano was enough to make Enzo’s knees shake.
“Vincent, man... what is this?” Enzo tried to smile, his voice cracking with panic. “Celeste told me you were having the memorial tonight. What are you doing out here in Red Hook?”
Vincent leaned over the desk, placing his palms flat on the glass.
“Where is Ada’s watch, Enzo?”
Enzo swallowed dryly.
“What watch? I don't know what you're talking about—”
Vincent reached out with blinding speed.
He grabbed Enzo by the collar of his designer jacket and slammed him face-down onto the glass table, shattering the halogen lamp.
Glass sprayed across the floor.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Vincent whispered directly into Enzo’s ear. “And if the next words out of your mouth are not the combination to that safe behind you, Marco will take you for a swim in the harbor with fifty pounds of chains around your ankles.”
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Enzo began to cry out in terror.
“Top shelf! Top shelf of the green safe! Key is in my right pocket! Don't shoot, Vincent! Please!”
