Chapter 4 - The Voice on the Wire
The convoy of four black armored SUVs rolled through the downpour, sliding like ghosts beneath the rusting iron bridges of the industrial waterfront.
Inside the lead vehicle, Aleandro sat in silence, staring at his phone. The screen lit up with an unsaved number. He clicked speakerphone.
“Don Moretti,” a voice rasped through the speaker. It was thick with a heavy, gravelly Russian accent—Viktor Malikov, the ruthless syndicate chief who had been fighting Moretti Holdings for control of the Atlantic shipping routes. “I assume you found the little gift your sweet bride left in your father’s prized clock.”
Aleandro’s expression didn't shift a millimeter. “You have five minutes to tell me she’s breathing, Viktor. After that, no amount of money in the Northern Hemisphere will buy your blood back.”
Viktor chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “She breathes for now. But she is very stubborn, Aleandro. She refused to give us your master ledger codes, even when my men broke two of her fingers. So we made her put the bug in your office to break your trust in her. We wanted you to execute her for treason with your own hands.”
Aleandro’s fingers tightened on the phone until the glass casing creaked. “Where is she?”
“She is sitting in a chair at Pier 42 with six pounds of C4 strapped to her ribs,” Viktor growled. “Sign over the title deeds to Port Newark and the Red Hook docks by midnight, or we send her back to you in a dozen wooden boxes.”
“You made one mistake, Viktor,” Aleandro said softly.
“Oh? And what is that?”
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“You left her alive long enough for me to reach the docks.”
Aleandro hung up the phone and looked out the window. Pier 42 loomed through the driving rain—a hulking mountain of corrugated steel and rusted cranes jutting out into the black water.
