Chapter 9 - The Father’s Shadow
The heavy steel roll-up door rattled violently as someone on the outside hammered against it with a crowbar, followed by the screech of industrial chains giving way.
"Back door," Thomas whispered, grabbing Mara's arm. "We can make it to the alley before they clear the loading bay."
"There's no back door that isn't already covered," Dante said, turning away from the window with cold resolve. He walked over to the office coat rack, pulled out his heavy wool jacket, and slipped it on over his black sweater. He didn't pick up a weapon, but the way he carried himself filled the small room with an undeniable authority.
"Then what do we do?" Mara demanded, holding the ledger tightly against her chest. "Just wait for them to walk in and drag us out?"
"No," Dante said, walking toward the office door and stepping out onto the metal landing overlooking the warehouse floor. "We let them in. But we don't run."
The main bay door groaned open, lifting into the ceiling with a deafening metallic screech. Harsh overhead security lights flooded the interior, and a half-dozen men in tailored dark coats marched into the cavernous space.
At the center of them walked Vincent Castellano.
He was in his late sixties, with iron-gray hair combed straight back, a sharp Roman nose, and eyes that looked like chips of blue ice. He wore an expensive cashmere overcoat, his hands tucked calmly into his pockets. He didn't look like a man in a panic; he looked like a king inspecting a rebellious province.
Vincent stopped fifty feet from the office stairs, looking up with a cold, terrifying calm.
"Dante," Vincent called out, his voice rich, gravelly, and echoing off the concrete walls. "I wondered where my favorite disappointment had wandered off to. And you brought guests."
Dante descended the metal staircase slowly, his hands relaxed at his sides, stopping halfway down so he was looking down at his father.
"You're up late, Dad," Dante said, his tone entirely level. "Must be hard sleeping when you're busy selling the family out to Baltimore."
The silence that followed was absolute. The enforcers standing around Vincent shifted slightly, their hands twitching near their coats, but Vincent didn't blink. A slow, dangerous smile crept across his weathered face.
"So that's what this is," Vincent said softly. "You think you're playing the hero. You think because you found a few old papers and some bitter dockworkers, you understand how this city works."
"I understand that you're liquidating everything my grandfather built just to line your own pockets before the feds close the net," Dante replied, stepping down another stair.
Vincent chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "My boy thinks he's a general. But you forgot one simple rule of the table, Dante: you can't play a hand with cards you don't actually own."
At the top of the stairs, Mara stepped out onto the landing beside Thomas, holding the yellowed ledger high enough for Vincent to see.
"He doesn't need the cards anymore, Mr. Castellano," Mara called out, her voice cutting clearly through the cavernous space. "The feds already have the deck."
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Vincent’s head snapped up. For the first time, the calm, immovable facade cracked, a flash of genuine shock and fury breaking across his features as he stared at Mara and the book in her hands.
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