Chapter 1 - The Midnight Exchange
The freezing rain fell in sharp, glassy needles against the rusted shipping containers of Pier 42.
Roman DeLuca checked the chronograph on his wrist under the dim amber glow of the dashboard.
It was twelve minutes past midnight.
The harbor smelled of saltwater, damp diesel, and impending violence.
Beside him in the passenger seat, Marcus kept both hands rested lightly over the grip of a suppressed automatic rifle.
Neither man had spoken for over twenty minutes.
The tension in the armored cabin was thick enough to choke on.
Two days ago, Roman’s twenty-four-year-old cousin Isabella had vanished from a restaurant parking lot in Little Italy.
Her handbag was still on the passenger seat of her sedan.
The engine had been running until the battery died.
There was no blood, no shattered glass, and no sign of a desperate struggle.
Only a single photograph sent to Roman’s personal burner phone six hours later.
Isabella was tied to a wooden chair with fresh bruises darkening her cheekbones.
Her captors did not ask for cash or gold.
They demanded the encrypted customs ledger Roman’s family had seized from the Marcone syndicate two months prior.
It was a trade Roman despised with every fiber of his being.
Giving up the ledger meant surrendering leverage over every crooked harbor official on the eastern seaboard.
Yet Isabella was the daughter of his father’s late brother.
She was blood, and Roman had sworn on his father’s gravestone that no DeLuca would ever be left behind.
A pair of halogen headlights cut through the sea mist three hundred yards down the pier.
A battered silver cargo van pulled into the open clearing between two stacks of freight crates.
Marcus leaned forward, his jaw clenching tight.
"Vehicle matches the description," Marcus muttered.
"Keep your finger off the trigger until she is across the line," Roman ordered softly.
Roman stepped out into the biting wind, his long wool coat whipping against his shins.
The side door of the silver van slid open with a screech of rusted bearings.
Two men stepped down into the rain, their faces concealed by ballistic masks.
Between them stood a slender woman in a beige trench coat and black leather boots.
Her head was covered by a thick canvas hood tied loosely at the collar.
Her height matched Isabella’s frame almost perfectly.
Dark chestnut curls tumbled out from beneath the rough fabric of the sack.
She stumbled on the slick asphalt, her shoulders shaking violently under the downpour.
One of the masked men pushed her forward with the barrel of a shotgun.
"Ledger first, DeLuca," a distorted voice barked over the howl of the harbor wind.
Marcus stepped out, carrying the heavy steel lockbox containing the physical drives.
He set the box down on a wooden pallet halfway between the two vehicles.
"Release her," Roman commanded, his voice cold and steady like cracking ice.
"Step back three paces, and take your hood off only after we clear the gate," the gunman yelled back.
The masked men shoved the woman hard toward Roman’s side of the line.
One of them grabbed the lockbox by the steel handle and backed toward the van.
The van door slammed shut before the men even sat down.
Tires squealed against wet concrete as the van reversed sharply and sped away into the darkness.
Roman moved forward in long, hurried strides and caught the trembling woman by the elbows.
She nearly collapsed into his chest, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
"Isabella, you are safe now," Roman whispered, his hands steadying her frame.
He reached up and pulled the heavy canvas hood away from her face.
Roman froze entirely.
The woman staring back at him was not Isabella.
Her skin was pale as bone, and her wide hazel eyes were filled with unadulterated panic.
Her lips were split and bleeding, trembling so hard her teeth clicked together.
She looked about twenty-seven years old.
She looked nothing like his cousin.
Roman’s expression turned to stone.
"Where is Isabella?" Roman demanded, his fingers tightening involuntarily on her coat.
The woman recoiled, tears cutting clear paths through the road dirt on her cheeks.
"I don’t know who that is," she cried out, her voice cracking with terror.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Claire Bennett," she gasped, clutching her bruised collarbone.
"They took me outside a grocery store forty minutes ago."
Marcus grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly toward the back seat of the armored SUV.
"Boss, we have to move right now," Marcus warned.
Roman shoved Claire into the leather interior and climbed in beside her.
The doors locked with a heavy pneumatic thud as the driver hit the gas.
Claire pressed her back against the far door, curling her knees to her chest.
"Please don't kill me," she sobbed, holding up two scraped, trembling hands.
"I work in payroll, I don't have any money."
Marcus was already running a hand scanner over her trench coat and boots.
He stopped abruptly near the lower hem of her coat lining.
He drew a pocket knife and slit the wool seam open in one clean motion.
A tiny, pill-shaped black transmitter tumbled out into his palm.
A miniature LED pulsed with a faint green beacon.
"Military-grade tracker," Marcus stated grimly.
Roman looked through the tinted rear windshield.
Three black Escalades had just swung out from behind an abandoned warehouse.
They entered the highway ramp in tight formation, matching their speed within seconds.
Claire looked at the blinking device in Marcus’s hand, her eyes dilating with pure horror.
"Why are they following us?" Claire whispered.
Roman looked down at the tiny green light, his jaw tight.
"Because they didn't make a mistake back there," Roman answered.
May you like
"They never intended to return my cousin."
"They gave us a decoy to lead their wolves straight to our front door."
