Chapter 7 - The Ghosts of the Docks
The gray dawn broke over the jagged cliffs of Dead Man’s Ridge.
Mia opened her eyes slowly, groaning as a dull throbbing flared in her left shoulder and right hand.
The ceiling above her was not the water-stained plaster of her tiny rental apartment.
It was high, coffered mahogany with recessed golden lighting and hand-carved molding.
The sheets beneath her were eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton, soft as running water.
She tried to sit up, but a sharp ache across her collarbone forced her back against the pillows.
"Do not move too quickly," a small, gentle voice whispered from beside the bed.
Mia turned her head carefully.
Lily was sitting cross-legged on a velvet armchair next to the headboard.
The little girl was holding a small glass of ice water with a plastic straw.
"Lily," Mia croaked, her throat raw from the smoke she had swallowed hours earlier.
"Are you hurt anywhere? Did they hurt you?"
Lily shook her head, her brown eyes wide and earnest.
"No. Daddy killed the bad man. And the doctor said your baby is okay."
Tears of pure, overwhelming relief spilled from the corners of Mia’s eyes.
She touched her lower belly through the silk blanket.
"My baby is okay?"
"I heard it," Lily whispered, leaning closer.
"It sounded like a little drum. Boom-boom-boom. Daddy let me listen on the recording machine."
Mia let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes as the crushing weight on her soul lifted slightly.
The heavy oak door swung open with a muffled click.
Mason stepped into the room carrying a silver tray with hot bone broth, fresh toast, and sliced fruit.
He had showered, his wet dark hair combed back, wearing a clean black charcoal suit without a tie.
"Out, Lily," Mason said gently.
"Grandma wants you to eat breakfast downstairs."
Lily leaned over the mattress, kissed Mia softly on the forehead, and hopped off the chair.
"Thank you for saving me, Mia," the child whispered before slipping out the door.
Mason set the silver tray on the nightstand beside the bed.
He pulled the velvet armchair closer and sat down, his imposing frame dominating the space.
"Eat the broth while it is hot," Mason said, his voice calm and authoritative.
"Castillo said you need electrolytes and sodium."
Mia took a sip of the warm broth through the straw, feeling the soothing heat spread through her chest.
"Thank you, Mr. Moretti. But I shouldn't be in your room. The staff quarters downstairs—"
"You are not staff anymore, Mia," Mason interrupted, looking directly into her eyes.
"From the moment you stepped between my daughter and a bullet, your employment as a maid ceased to exist."
Mia frowned, setting the cup down with her trembling left hand.
"What do you mean?"
"You are under my personal protection for the rest of your natural life," Mason stated simply.
"Your apartment lease has already been terminated. Your belongings are being packed by my private movers right now."
"Mr. Moretti, I have a life. I have bills, I have—"
"I had my accountants audit your late husband's files this morning," Mason said, leaning back.
Mia froze, the air leaving her lungs.
"Thomas?"
"Thomas Carter," Mason said, pulling a thin manila folder from his jacket pocket.
"He was a master mechanic at the South Brooklyn commercial shipping docks. He died six months ago when a forty-ton shipping container detached from a crane and crushed his utility van."
Mia’s eyes filled with fresh tears of bitter grief.
"It was an equipment malfunction. The port authority called it an unavoidable workplace accident."
Mason opened the folder and slid a high-resolution photograph across the sheets.
"Look at the crane’s serial plate, Mia."
Mia leaned forward, squinting at the black-and-white photograph.
On the steel arm of the crane was an engraved brass emblem: Vance Logistics & Maritime Enterprises.
Mia stared at the plate, the blood draining completely from her face.
"Julian Vance owned the crane?"
"Julian Vance owns forty percent of the commercial docks in Brooklyn," Mason explained coldly.
"Six months ago, Thomas discovered that Julian’s shipping containers were moving military-grade weapons and black-market fentanyl without my knowledge."
Mia gasped, pressing her hand over her mouth.
"Thomas came home one night terrified," Mia whispered, memories rushing back like a nightmare.
"He told me he saw crates marked for agricultural machinery packed with automatic firearms. He said he was going to report it to the terminal supervisor."
"The terminal supervisor was Julian Vance’s cousin," Mason said, his voice dropping into pure ice.
"Thomas did not die in an industrial accident, Mia. The cable on that crane was severed with an oxyacetylene torch. Thomas was murdered because he was an honest man who refused to take bribe money from traitors."
Mia began to shake violently, the agony in her heart eclipsing the pain in her burned hand and bullet wound.
For six months, she had believed her husband’s death was a cruel, senseless stroke of bad luck.
She had spent six months scrubbing floors until her knees bled, starving herself to pay off medical bills for a murder.
"Julian Vance killed my husband?" Mia whispered, her voice cracking with unspeakable sorrow.
"Yes," Mason said, leaning forward until his face was inches from hers.
He reached out, his large, calloused fingers gently cupping the back of her uninjured hand.
"Julian Vance killed your husband. He burned my ancestral home. He tried to murder my daughter and my grandmother. And he tried to murder you and your unborn child last night."
Mia looked into Mason’s dark, merciless eyes.
For the first time since she had met him, she did not see a terrifying mafia warlord.
She saw a man whose grief and fury matched her own ounce for ounce.
"What are you going to do to him?" Mia asked, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper.
May you like
Mason’s mouth curved into a terrifying, humorless smirk.
"I am going to let him dig his own grave in front of the entire underworld. And then I am going to bury him alive."
