Chapter 6 - THE GHOST OF PIER 42
Isabella.
My blood ran cold. Roman’s younger sister, Isabella—a sweet, brilliant nineteen-year-old art student who had spent the last two years studying in Paris under heavy guard—was supposed to be safe across the ocean.
Yet here was a message proving she had been snatched right out from under the Caruso family’s nose.
“They took her,” I whispered, looking up at Roman. The terrifying mob boss facade had completely shattered, replaced by the raw, agonizing panic of an older brother facing the exact same nightmare he had lived through when he lost his parents.
“Marco!” Roman roared, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceilings of the estate.
Within three seconds, Marco burst through the bedroom door, weapon drawn, stepping over the unconscious hitmen on the floor without a second glance. “Boss! What’s—?”
“Get me a secure line to Paris. Now,” Roman commanded, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched the burner phone. “Verify Isabella’s apartment. Check her security detail.”
“Already on it, Boss,” Marco said, pulling out his own satellite phone, dialing with practiced speed, and speaking in rapid, hushed Italian.
I watched Roman pace across the shattered glass, his broad shoulders tense, a vein throbbing violently at his temple. The trap was springing shut. Grant and Julian hadn't just sent hitmen to kill me; they had executed a two-pronged strategy to cripple Roman emotionally while executing a hostile takeover of the remaining New York shipping lanes.
Marco hung up his satellite phone, his face gray as ash.
“Well?” Roman demanded, stopping dead in his tracks.
“Her apartment was breached two hours ago, Boss,” Marco reported, his voice hollow. “Her bodyguards... they were neutralized. Clean execution. The Paris detail didn't report it because Julian’s people spoofed the security protocols using our own encryption keys.”
Roman let out a low, animalistic growl of pure fury. He slammed his fist against the mahogany bedpost, splintering the polished wood.
“Pier 42,” Roman said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly register. “That’s where they want me. That’s where Julian has his private shipping container vaults.”
“It’s a slaughterhouse, Boss,” Marco warned, stepping forward. “If Julian and Grant are teaming up with the Boston syndicate, Pier 42 will be wired with explosives. They aren't just trying to negotiate; they’re trying to wipe out the Caruso bloodline in one strike.”
I stepped into the dim light between them.
“Then we don't walk into their trap blindly,” I said firmly.
Roman turned his dark, blazing eyes toward me. “Evelyn, no. You are staying here. This is a war, not a rescue mission for you to oversee.”
“Listen to me, Roman,” I cut him off, taking a step closer, refusing to back down. “Pier 42 belongs to the Mercer family’s old logistics network. I spent three years auditing those specific container vaults for my father. I know every underground service tunnel, every blind spot in the security cameras, and every hidden access code they use to move contraband.”
Roman stared at me, evaluating my words, weighing the danger against the tactical advantage.
“If you go in alone,” I continued, “they will kill you before you reach the second bay. If you take an army, they will execute Isabella the moment your first truck crosses the gate. But if you take me as your bargaining chip... you get inside.”
Marco looked horrified. “Mrs. Caruso, with all due respect, that is absolute madness.”
“It’s survival,” I countered sharply.
Roman didn't speak for a long, agonizing moment. He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently wrapping around my jaw, tilting my face up so I was forced to look directly into his turbulent eyes.
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“If I take you with me,” Roman whispered, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn't quite decipher, “and anything happens to you... I will burn New York to the ash.”
“Then let’s go burn it together,” I replied.
