Chapter 8 - The Unraveling Syndicate
The private lounge of the Harvard Club in downtown Boston was shrouded in heavy velvet drapery and the smell of ancient leather books.
Conrad Voss sat in a high-backed wing chair, his hands resting on the polished armrests.
Across from him sat Dominic Moretti, accompanied by two hulking capos whose jackets bulged conspicuously beneath their armpits.
Dominic was twenty-eight years old, reckless, and hungry to supplant the older generation of mafia leadership.
He leaned back with his polished Italian loafers resting casually on the low brass-and-glass coffee table between them.
You look tired, Conrad, Dominic drawled, rotating a gold lighter between his manicured fingers.
A man in your position shouldn't look like he’s been sleeping in his car.
Is the high-society life wearing you down, or are the federal prosecutors breathing too close to your collar?
Conrad did not move a single muscle; his expression remained an impenetrable mask of cold granite.
The business runs according to schedule, Dominic, Conrad replied, keeping his voice smooth and devoid of tension.
The shipments arriving at Terminal Four will clear customs without an hour of delay.
You will have your distribution manifests on Monday morning, as we previously agreed.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, the smug smirk disappearing from his face.
Don’t lie to me, Voss.
My father might have had patience for your aristocratic games, but I don't.
We have eyes on your estate.
Your men have been tearing the city apart for forty-eight hours, shaking down street informers and checking every back-alley flophouse.
You lost something important, didn't you?
Conrad felt the adrenaline surge through his veins, but he kept his breathing steady and slow.
It’s an internal administrative matter, Dominic.
It doesn't affect our logistics, and it certainly doesn't concern the Moretti family.
Dominic leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face inches from Conrad’s.
Everything in Boston concerns the Moretti family, especially when rumors start circulating that your little waitress wife walked out on you.
A cold, suffocating silence dropped over the private room.
Conrad’s eyes flickered with a lethal, predatory light that made Dominic’s two bodyguards instinctively rest their palms against their holsters.
Watch your mouth, Conrad warned in a voice that dropped into a venomous whisper.
My personal life is not open for discussion at this table.
Dominic let out a short, harsh bark of laughter, though he leaned back into his chair to re-establish distance.
A man who can't keep his own wife inside his house has no business commanding three waterfront terminals.
If those manifests aren't signed and delivered by noon on Tuesday, Conrad, our agreement is officially terminated.
And if we find out that your domestic trouble threatens our cargo... we’ll take the docks by force and bury you where you stand.
Dominic stood up, straightened the lapels of his silk suit, and signaled his men toward the heavy exit doors.
Conrad sat in the leather chair for five long minutes after the door closed, listening to the muffled street noise outside the private club.
The walls were closing in on him from every conceivable angle.
If he lost the shipping terminals to the Morettis, his own captains would begin to question his fitness to lead.
In their violent world, perceived weakness was an invitation to open execution.
He stood up, adjusted his charcoal overcoat, and walked out to his armored town car waiting in the rear alleyway.
Marcus was sitting behind the wheel, his face pale under the amber glow of the dashboard instrumentation.
Drive back to Beacon Hill, Conrad commanded, stepping into the back seat and slamming the door.
Did the tech team trace the Montreal server?
Marcus put the transmission into gear and eased the heavy car into the downtown traffic.
The tech team found the server host in downtown Montreal, boss.
It’s a commercial data farm owned by a multi-national cloud infrastructure firm.
They won't release access logs or encryption keys without a federal court order or a judicial subpoena.
We sent two men to the facility, but it’s guarded like a military installation; there's no way to hack or breach it physically without tripping the alarms.
Conrad closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a massive headache throbbing behind his temples.
She thought of everything, he murmured, the realization tasting like bile on his tongue.
Every single step was planned with surgical precision.
Boss, Marcus said, looking in the rearview mirror with genuine hesitation.
There’s one lead that might have produced something.
Conrad’s eyes snapped open instantly.
What is it?
We ran an audit on the private cash ledgers from the household accounts over the last four years.
We found that every month, Mrs. Voss purchased small items from a specialized print-and-bindery shop in downtown Boston.
We visited the shop this morning.
The owner remembered her because she always paid in cash and brought her own high-grade binding materials.
She was having personal administrative forms printed on heavy linen cardstock—the same stock she used for the letter left in the safe.
Did he have an address? Conrad snapped, leaning forward against the leather partition.
No address, Marcus answered grimly.
But he remembered that she had him print a set of personalized receipts for a commercial transport company located in Providence, Rhode Island.
The print run was completed six weeks ago.
Why would she need transport receipts for a city sixty miles away unless she was scouting locations long before she left?
Conrad felt a sudden, electric shock of adrenaline tear through his exhaustion.
Providence.
She had bypassed New York because it was too chaotic and heavily monitored by both the federal task force and the five families.
She had avoided Maine and New Hampshire because she had no connections to the northern rural regions.
Providence was close enough to reach on a single bus ticket, large enough to remain anonymous, and industrial enough to offer off-the-books employment.
Assemble a team of four, Conrad ordered, his voice suddenly sharp, decisive, and terrifyingly focused.
No heavy weapons, no black SUVs that scream syndicate enforcement.
Get two nondescript sedans from the rental pool with out-of-state plates.
We are driving down to Rhode Island tonight.
Marcus glanced into the mirror with genuine alarm.
Boss, you can't leave Boston right now.
The Morettis are watching every movement around your home, and the captains are already murmuring about your absence from the morning briefings.
If you vanish across state lines, they’ll think you’re running from a federal indictment!
Conrad’s eyes burned with an obsessive, dark intensity that bordered on madness.
Let them think whatever they want, he growled, staring out at the rain-slicked streets of Boston.
I don't give a damn about the terminals, the shipping containers, or the Morettis.
If I don't bring my wife home before that clock runs out, none of this matters anyway.
May you like
Step on the gas, Marcus.
We have forty-eight hours to turn Providence upside down.
