Chapter 7 - The Trap at the Docks
|
Thursday morning brought a cold, driving rain that lashed against the panoramic windows of the Drake suite.
My ankle was tightly bound in a professional fiberglass walking splint, courtesy of Dr. Callahan, who had visited the night before.
The swelling had subsided significantly, and I could bear weight without the blinding, nauseating pain.
At eight sharp, the suite door opened.
Dante walked in, wearing a charcoal wool trench coat over a tailored navy suit.
He carried a leather folder under his arm and a paper cup of fresh coffee from the café downstairs.
"How is the leg?" he asked, handing me the coffee.
"Much better," I said, taking a grateful sip. "The splint makes a tremendous difference."
"Good," Dante said, sitting on the armchair across from me.
"Because this morning, you and I are going to the Fulton Market warehouse."
I paused, the cup halfway to my lips.
"Why?"
"Because Marcus Vance just authorized the monthly payment to Lakeshore Provisions twenty-four hours early," Dante said, his voice flat and dangerous.
"Tony Brandt called Vance yesterday afternoon in a panic, demanding immediate cash."
"Vance panicked, forged my secondary digital signature, and scheduled a physical courier delivery of thirty-two thousand dollars in bearer bonds to the warehouse at ten o'clock."
"They think they’re slipping under the radar before the weekend audit."
"What do you need me for?" I asked, my heart beginning to thud against my ribs.
Dante opened the leather folder and slid a single sheet of paper across the coffee table.
It was the original ledger from my father’s cabinet shop, dated four years ago.
"Where did you get this?" I gasped, touching the faded yellow paper.
"My men paid a visit to Brandt’s bookkeeper two hours ago," Dante said smoothly.
"Your father borrowed twenty thousand dollars."
"Over the last thirty-six months, you have paid Brandt seventy-four thousand eight hundred dollars."
"The debt was satisfied two years ago, Elena."
"Everything he took from you since then was pure extortion."
A wave of hot, suffocating anger washed over me, burning away every lingering trace of fear.
Three years of skipped meals.
Three years of shivering in an unheated apartment.
Three years of living in terror of footsteps on the stairs.
All for a debt that had been paid twice over.
"I want to see him," I said, looking directly into Dante’s dark eyes.
Dante studied my face for a long moment, searching for hesitation and finding none.
"You will stay in the car until I give the signal," Dante said.
"When you step out, you will look him in the eye."
"And you will tell him what his ledger actually says."
An hour later, a convoy of three black SUVs entered the industrial district near the Chicago River.
The warehouse sat at the end of a dead-end street, surrounded by rusted chain-link fence and shipping containers.
Rain poured from the rusted gutters, drumming violently against the metal roofs.
Our vehicle backed into the shadows of an adjacent loading bay, invisible from the main road.
Dante checked the clip of a sleek, black semi-automatic pistol, slid it back into his shoulder holster, and buttoned his jacket.
"Leo and Mateo are with you," Dante said, placing a warm hand on my shoulder.
"Wait for my call."
May you like
He stepped out into the rain, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Through the tinted glass, I watched Dante walk alone into the cavernous warehouse, his silhouette tall and unyielding against the gray autumn mist.
