Chapter 6 - The Digital Ghost
The tinny scratch of Vincent Costa’s voice grated against the absolute stillness of the third-floor guest suite, turning the air brittle and cold.
Antonio didn't blink. His fingers curled around the edges of Damen’s encrypted satellite phone until his knuckles ached, his dark gaze locked onto the glowing screen where Marco’s bloodied head lolled against the wooden chair.
"You’re wasting your breath, Vincent," Antonio said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, flat register that always preceded extreme violence.
"Am I?" Costa leaned closer to the camera lens, the harsh fluorescent glare of the Red Hook warehouse catching the jagged white scar that split his left cheek. "I don't know, Tony. Looks to me like you've got a full house. A dead man's old toys, a crying widow, and a little girl who knows way too much about architecture. You always did have a soft spot for stray dogs. Too bad they bite."
Elena gasped, pulling the sleeping Mia tighter against her chest. She couldn't hear the words clearly, but the vicious tone and the sight of the screen enough made her entire body break out in a cold sweat. "What is that?" she whispered, her voice shaking violently. "Who is that man? What does he want with us?"
Antonio ignored her. He couldn't afford distractions. "If you wanted to talk, Costa, you should have come to the pier yourself instead of hiding behind a screen like a rat in a bulkhead."
"Oh, I'll be seeing you soon enough," Costa laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound. "The package you’ve got upstairs—she’s got something of mine. Or rather, her late husband left a little parting gift in your walls before he took that flying lesson in Queens. Tell you what, Tony. Bring the girl and the kid to the old rail yards off Tenth and Thirty-Fourth at midnight. Come alone, or Marco here loses his other ear. Then we can talk about how the Moretti empire crumbles from the inside out."
The screen flashed black as the line went dead.
Damen swore under his breath, stepping forward and grabbing his phone back. "The signal bounced through three different proxy servers in the Tri-State area. It’s untraceable. He knew we’d try to lock coordinates the second he connected."
Antonio didn't answer right away. He turned his head slowly, his eyes fixing on Elena. The terror on her face was palpable, genuine, and completely stripped of any artifice. She was a mother trapped in a crossfire she didn't understand, married to a ghost who had apparently left a trail of digital landmines inside the Moretti estate.
"Your husband," Antonio said, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a razor blade. "Daniel Rossi. He told you he was just an ordinary electrician working commercial towers?"
Elena nodded frantically, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "Yes! He worked long hours, he took every overtime shift he could find because we were trying to save up for a down payment on a small house in Bayside. He never talked about his jobs. He said it was standard commercial wiring—office buildings, retail spaces. He was never mixed up in this! I swear to God!"
"He wasn't wiring office buildings," Damen spat bitterly, pacing toward the window. "He was running data lines and listening posts through the structural core of this house for Costa. Every word spoken in the private study, every movement on the third and fourth floors—Costa has had a live feed for five years."
The room seemed to shrink. Elena stared at Damen in utter horror, shaking her head. "No. That’s impossible. Daniel was a good man. He loved us."
"People do desperate things when they're drowning in debt, Mrs. Rossi," Antonio said quietly, stepping closer to her. The sheer height and presence of him forced Elena to lean back against the headboard, though she never loosened her grip on Mia. "And when they become inconvenient, men like Costa drop them from scaffolds."
"What are you going to do to us?" Elena whispered, her voice breaking completely.
Antonio looked down at the child sleeping peacefully against her mother’s chest, her small hand still clutching the stuffed bear, Biscuit. Memories he had spent five years trying to bury—laughter in the hallway, little footprints on the hardwood, the sound of a small voice calling his name—flashed violently behind his eyes.
"Damen," Antonio said without looking away from Elena.
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"Yeah?"
"Get the cars ready. We’re going to the rail yards."
