Chapter 3 – [THE PRICE OF A BREATH]

Delphine fell to her knees on the wet pavement, picking up the shattered pink plastic of her daughter’s inhaler.

A ragged sob tore from her throat. Posie was seven years old. Without her medicine, a mild attack could become fatal in less than an hour.

“We will find her,” Victor said, his large hands gently pulling Delphine up from the ground. “I swear to you on my father’s grave, Delphine. No one touches a child in my city and lives.”

Answer one: Camille hadn’t just fled with the ledger; she had taken Posie as leverage to ensure Victor wouldn’t kill her before she could decrypt the accounts.

Open two: Where would Camille take a child in the middle of a thunderstorm? And who was driving the black sedan?

Victor pulled Delphine back into the SUV. His radio was already crackling with reports from his men.

“The sedan was a rental, Boss,” a voice barked over the radio. “Plates are dead. But they’re heading south toward the shipping yards.”

“The shipping yards,” Victor muttered. “My father’s old territory.”

“Why would she go there?” Delphine asked, clutching the broken inhaler to her chest.

“Because that’s where the money is hidden,” Victor said grimly. “The ledger in that notebook doesn’t just hold account numbers. It holds the physical coordinates of a vault. She needs time to crack the invisible ink.”

Delphine’s mind raced. Poverty had taught her to be incredibly observant. She remembered every single mark she had made in that notebook.

“Wait,” Delphine gasped. “When I was tracking my tips, I used a specific pen. My mother’s old fountain pen. The ink used to bleed through the pages.”

Victor turned to her. “So?”

“So, whatever invisible ink my mother used, my pen reacted with it. I saw faint blue numbers appearing beneath my tip records. I thought it was just the cheap paper staining.”

“Do you remember the numbers?” Victor asked, his intensity burning.

Delphine closed her eyes. Rent. Groceries. Posie’s medicine. She lived and breathed numbers.

“Pier 42,” Delphine whispered. “Warehouse 8. Container 409.”

Victor slammed his hand on the partition. “Driver! Pier 42. Now!”

The armored SUV tore through the Boston streets, blowing through red lights.

They arrived at the docks as the rain turned into a torrential downpour. Massive steel shipping containers created a labyrinth in the dark.

Victor pulled a heavy, black pistol from his holster. He handed a smaller weapon to Delphine.

“I don’t know how to shoot,” she trembled.

“Point it and pull the trigger,” he said coldly. “You’re a mother protecting her cub. You’ll figure it out.”

They moved silently through the rain, flanked by four of Victor’s heavily armed guards.

They reached Warehouse 8. The massive metal door was slightly ajar.

Inside, the warehouse was dark, smelling of rust and salt.

At the center of the room sat Container 409. The heavy padlock had been blown off.

Victor motioned for silence. He crept forward, his gun raised.

He kicked the container doors wide open.

Inside, illuminated by a single hanging bulb, was Camille. She was frantically stuffing stacks of hundred-dollar bills into a duffel bag.

But Posie wasn’t there.

Victor grabbed Camille by the hair, slamming her face into the steel wall of the container.

“Where is the child?” Victor roared.

Camille laughed, blood spitting from her lip. “You’re too late, Victor. I traded her.”

Delphine lunged forward, pressing her gun directly against Camille’s forehead. “Who did you trade her to? Tell me!”

Camille looked at Delphine with pure malice.

“I traded her to the man who really owns this city,” Camille sneered. “Look in the bag, Delphine.”

Delphine ripped open the second duffel bag on the floor.

It wasn’t filled with money.

It was filled with police uniforms.

And resting on top was a silver badge belonging to the Boston Chief of Police.

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