Chapter 7
The Anatomy of a Syndicate
Victor’s safehouse was a high-tech command center hidden behind the facade of an antique tea importing shop.
Computer monitors flickered with live satellite feeds of Manhattan harbor, financial transaction logs, and intercepted phone calls.
“Dominic thinks he owns the port authority,” Natalia explained, pointing to a glowing red node on a multi-screen display.
“In reality, he’s just a middleman for a much larger international cartel operating out of St. Petersburg.”
“And what does he want with my father’s shipping company?” I asked, leaning over the console.
“Your father owned the only private deep-water pier in Brooklyn that isn't monitored by federal customs,” Victor replied.
“Dominic used forged debt documents to seize it. He’s using your family’s legacy to smuggle un-taxed cargo right into the heart of New York.”
I stared at the schematics of the pier.
Every memory of my father walking along those wooden docks flooded back into my mind.
The salt in the air.
The sound of gulls crying at dawn.
And Dominic Pierce had turned it into a criminal transit hub.
“How do we take it back?” I asked, my voice cold and focused.
“We don’t just take back the pier,” Natalia smiled, a fierce, predatory gleam in her eyes.
“We take his entire empire. Every offshore account. Every bribed senator. Every shell company.”
“And how do we do that?”
Victor tapped the keyboard.
A secure login screen appeared on the monitor.
ENTER DECRYPTION KEY.
“Dominic stores his master ledger on a physical hard drive locked inside his personal wall safe at his TriBeCa penthouse,” Victor explained.
“A safe that requires his voiceprint, his biometric scan, and a six-digit rolling code.”
“I know the code,” I said quietly.
Victor and Natalia stopped and stared at me.
“You know the override code?” Natalia asked incredulously.
“When I worked as his private translator during his early acquisitions in Europe, I watched him punch it in a hundred times,” I said, tapping my temple.
“I never forget a sequence of numbers.”
Victor let out a low, appreciative whistle.
May you like
“Then the trap is set,” Victor said.
“We don't wait for him to hunt us down. We crash his high-society charity gala at the Plaza Hotel tomorrow night.”
