Chapter 7 – THE TICKING CLOCK AT THE WAREHOUSE

The air in Scarlett’s bedroom seemed to freeze.

Matteo stood perfectly still, the phone pressed against his ear. His dark eyes, usually so calculated and controlled, flared with a terrifying, unhinged violence.

“Where did they take them, Luca?” Matteo asked. His voice wasn’t loud. It was a chilling, dead-calm whisper that made the hair on my arms stand up.

“I’m sorry, Boss. We lost the vehicles at the interstate. Dominic had a medical transport van waiting. They’re gone.”

Matteo ended the call and slowly lowered the phone.

“They have my mom,” I gasped, the reality crushing my chest. “They have my paralyzed mother and your mom. Dominic is going to kill them both to cover the trail.”

“No,” Matteo said, turning to look at me. “Dominic won’t kill them. Not yet. He needs Evelyn alive to legally ratify the transfer of the estate at midnight. If she dies before the deadline, the property falls into probate, and Arthur loses the casino deal.”

He looked at his watch.

10:45 PM.

Seventy-five minutes.

“Seventy-five minutes until midnight,” Matteo said, his mind shifting into tactical overdrive. “They need a place private enough to force her signature, but secure enough to hold off my men. Where does Arthur do his dirty work?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember every conversation I had overheard while serving Scarlett her morning mimosas.

“The docks,” I blurted out. “A week ago, Scarlett was yelling at her father on the phone. She said, ‘I don’t care if it smells like fish, just keep the shipping containers moving at Pier 41.’”

Matteo’s eyes darkened. “Pier 41. Arthur owns a seafood import warehouse there. It’s a front for smuggling.”

He grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the door.

“We have to go. Now.”

We bolted down the servant stairs, bursting out into the torrential rain. We sprinted across the dark lawn, ignoring the shouts of Arthur’s guards patrolling the front gate. Matteo threw me into the passenger seat of his SUV, jumped behind the wheel, and slammed on the gas.

The heavy vehicle tore through the manicured hedges, fishtailing onto the wet pavement of the street.

Matteo drove like a madman, weaving through the slick Chicago traffic at eighty miles an hour. With one hand on the steering wheel, he tossed the black USB stick onto my lap.

“Plug that into the dashboard port,” he ordered.

My hands shook as I pushed the drive into the USB slot. The SUV’s large touchscreen flickered, bringing up a massive, encrypted spreadsheet.

“It’s password protected,” I panicked, staring at a red lock icon blinking on the screen.

“Try Scarlett’s birthday,” Matteo said, swerving to avoid a semi-truck.

“Incorrect,” I read.

“Try Arthur’s.”

“Still locked.”

I stared at the screen, thinking about Scarlett. How incredibly vain and arrogant she was. How she viewed herself as royalty.

“Wait,” I whispered. I typed in: MrsRusso.

The screen flashed green.

Files began pouring across the display. Pages and pages of bank transfers, offshore routing numbers, and shell company names.

“I’m in,” I breathed.

“Good,” Matteo said, his eyes glued to the rain-slicked road. “Find the trust fund Arthur opened in your mother’s name. Reroute the four million dollars back into Arthur’s primary syndicate account. Do it right now.”

I tapped the screen, scrolling furiously through the files. “Found it. Margaret Mitchell Trust. Initiating transfer back to… Arthur Sterling Holdings.”

“Execute it,” Matteo commanded.

I hit the button. A green checkmark appeared.

Transfer Complete.

“Okay, the money is back in Arthur’s name,” I said. “But how does that help us if they kill our mothers?”

“Because,” Matteo said grimly, “the Commission doesn’t care about murder. But they care very much about a boss stealing four million dollars from the family pot and trying to hide it. I just sent that ledger to the heads of the Five Families in New York.”

The docks loomed ahead of us, a sprawling maze of rusted shipping containers and massive, dimly lit warehouses sitting right on the black water of Lake Michigan.

Matteo killed the headlights.

He steered the SUV down a narrow alley between two towering stacks of metal crates, parking in the deep shadows.

“Stay in the car,” Matteo ordered, pulling his pistol and checking the chamber.

“No,” I said, grabbing his arm. “My mother is in there. I’m not waiting in the car.”

Matteo looked at me. He saw the fierce, unyielding terror in my eyes, and he nodded once.

“Stay behind me. If the shooting starts, you drop to the ground and don’t move.”

We crept through the driving rain toward Warehouse 41. The massive corrugated metal doors were chained shut, but a small side entrance was cracked open. Two men stood outside smoking, the orange cherries of their cigarettes glowing in the dark.

Matteo didn’t hesitate.

He stepped out of the shadows, moving with terrifying speed. Before the men could even reach for their weapons, Matteo struck the first guard in the throat with the butt of his gun, then swept the second man’s legs out, knocking him unconscious against the brick wall.

Matteo kicked the side door open, pulling me inside.

The warehouse was cavernous, smelling heavily of dead fish and diesel fuel. In the center of the concrete floor, illuminated by a single, harsh halogen work light, was a terrifying scene.

My mother was strapped to a wheelchair, her head slumped to the side.

Next to her sat Evelyn, tied to a metal folding chair. Her ugly brown coat was soaked with rain, her face bruised.

Standing in front of them was Dominic, holding a clipboard and a pen.

And standing behind him, pointing a silver revolver directly at Evelyn’s head, was Scarlett.

“Sign the probate release, Mom,” Dominic screamed, slamming the pen onto the clipboard in Evelyn’s lap. “Sign it, or Scarlett blows your head off and I dump both of these women into the lake!”

“Don’t sign a damn thing, Mom!” Matteo roared, stepping out of the shadows, his gun raised.

Dominic spun around, his face paling.

Scarlett panicked, grabbing Evelyn by the hair and pressing the barrel of the revolver hard against the old woman’s temple.

“Drop the gun, Matteo!” Scarlett shrieked, her hands shaking violently. “Drop it, or I swear to God I’ll kill her right now!”

Matteo stopped walking. His eyes locked onto Scarlett’s trembling finger on the trigger.

Slowly, deliberately, Matteo lowered his weapon and dropped it onto the concrete floor.

“Matteo, no!” Evelyn cried.

Dominic laughed, a manic, breathless sound. He kicked Matteo’s gun away.

“How romantic,” Dominic sneered. “The boss surrenders. It’s too late, brother. Arthur has already submitted the paperwork. By midnight, I own the estate, and Arthur takes your seat on the Commission.”

“You think so?” Matteo asked calmly.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his ringing cell phone. He tossed it onto the ground at Dominic’s feet.

“Answer it, Dominic,” Matteo said, a dark smile spreading across his face. “It’s your new boss in New York. He wants to know why you and Arthur just wired four million dollars of stolen syndicate money back into Arthur’s personal bank account.”

Dominic stared at the phone.

Scarlett’s eyes widened in horror as she looked at her fiancé.

“What did you do?” she whispered.

Matteo looked directly at Scarlett.

“I didn’t do anything, Scarlett. But you just ruined your father’s life.”

And in that moment of distraction, Evelyn didn’t scream or beg.

She reached into the deep pocket of her worn brown coat, pulled out the heavy silver vault key, and slammed the jagged metal edge straight into Scarlett’s knee.

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