Chapter 7 - The Price of Loyalty
Frankie didn't look like the drunken bully who had insulted me in the kitchen three weeks ago. His suit was sharp, his posture rigid, and a small, cynical smile played at the corner of his mouth. He wasn't holding a weapon, but he didn't need to—he held the diary, and his presence here meant the North Gate breach upstairs hadn't been an accident of timing.
“You’re supposed to be in New Jersey,” Vincent said coldly, his body shifting imperceptibly into a defensive stance in front of me, the Glock raised and steady.
“New Jersey is terribly overrated, boss,” Frankie chuckled softly, stepping out of the shadows. He tossed the diary onto the desk between us. “And as for disappearing? Well, a man needs a sabbatical when he realizes his employer is chasing ghosts instead of business.”
“You didn't leave because of your performance,” Vincent realized, his voice dropping an octave. “David wasn't the only leak. You’ve been working with Silas since the day you walked onto this estate.”
“I’ve been working with the winning side,” Frankie corrected, his eyes flickering toward me with a flash of malicious amusement. “And look at us now. The great Vincent Calder, cornered in a damp cellar with a frightened temp who can't even hold a gun straight.”
I tightened my grip on the revolver, my anger finally overriding my terror. “You're a coward, Frankie.”
“Am I, sweetheart?” Frankie sneered, taking half a step forward. “Your little brother owes eighty thousand dollars to men who chop fingers off for sport. You think Vincent cares about your family? He’s using your father's ghost to settle a decades-old score with Silas. You’re just a convenient key to unlock a door he couldn't open himself.”
Vincent didn't blink. He didn't look back at me to deny it. His gaze remained locked on Frankie.
“Tell Silas he’s welcome to come down here and get the ledger himself,” Vincent said quietly. “Instead of sending his errand boys to do his dirty work.”
Frankie’s smile faded. “Silas isn't upstairs, Vincent. He’s outside the north gate. And he doesn't want the ledger anymore.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “Then what does he want?”
May you like
Frankie’s gaze shifted from Vincent to me, and for the first time, a genuine chill ran down my spine.
“He wants the accountant's daughter,” Frankie said softly. “As a direct trade for the shipping rights. And if you don't agree, the men upstairs are under strict instructions to pay a very unpleasant visit to an elderly woman in an assisted-living facility in Brooklyn.”
