Chapter 7 - The Vanished Convoy
The blood in my veins turned to ice water.
"Say that again," I ordered, my voice dropping into a register so lethal that Salvatore actually paused, his hand hovering over the edge of the desk.
"The ambulance carrying Mara and the child was intercepted on the I-95 corridor outside New Haven twenty minutes ago," Grant reported rapidly, the sound of keyboard clacking bleeding through the audio feed. "Local state troopers found the vehicle abandoned off an exit ramp. The driver and the nurse are tied up in the back. Mara and Chloe are gone."
"Who took them?"
"Marino's auxiliary detail," Grant said, the words hitting like a physical blow. "One of the intercept vehicles left behind a specialized tow bracket stamped with Marino logistics insignia. Salvatore didn't just test you tonight, Boss. He laid a trap."
I slowly lowered the phone, my gaze snapping up from the screen to meet Salvatore Marino’s smug, knowing grin.
He hadn't just been sitting in my office waiting to lecture me about the wedding contracts. He had been buying time while his enforcers hunted down a four-year-old girl and her mother on a dark highway in Connecticut, using my own newly wired funds as a homing beacon.
"You son of a bitch," I breathed, the control I had maintained all evening finally fracturing.
Salvatore chuckled, adjusting his cuffs with leisurely arrogance. "You thought you could sneak a family member out from under my nose? You thought you could fund a medical transport behind my back and I wouldn't notice the cash flow leaving your private accounts? You're a smart boy, Vincent, but you're soft. You let sentimentality cloud a five-hundred-witness business deal."
In a single, fluid motion, I vaulted across the mahogany desk, my hands slamming into Salvatore’s chest and driving him backward into the heavy wingback chair. The chair flipped over with a deafening crash, sending lamps, legal briefs, and crystal decanters shattering across the floor.
I pinned him to the Persian rug by his throat, my fingers digging into his windpipe until his face turned a mottled, furious purple.
"Where are they?" I snarled, my face inches from his. "Where did your men take them?"
Salvatore clawed at my wrists, gasping for air, but a hideous, triumphant grin still twisted his lips. "You... you kill me... tomorrow... the wedding... becomes a war zone... My men... will put a bullet in the kid... before you reach the county line."
The door flew open behind us. Grant rushed into the room, his Sig Sauer drawn, followed by three of my personal security lieutenants.
"Boss! Stop!" Grant shouted, grabbing my shoulder and physically dragging me off the choking syndicate boss.
May you like
Salvatore rolled onto his side, coughing violently and clutching his throat as he sucked in ragged breaths of air. He looked up at me with watery, hateful eyes, laughing hoarsely against the floorboards.
"You want the girl back?" Salvatore rasped, wiping spittle from his chin. "You show up at St. Patrick’s Cathedral tomorrow at noon. You stand at the altar, you put the ring on Vanessa’s finger, and you sign the master logistics merger in front of the mayor and the press. Once the ink is dry... I'll tell you where your cousin's kid is buried."
