Chapter 3 - The Safehouse Ledger
The unmarked safehouse sat on the edge of the Industrial Canal, a corrugated metal warehouse sandwiched between a rotting timber wharf and a sprawling container yard where shipping cranes loomed like skeletal giants against the bruised New Orleans sky.
The rain drummed a relentless tattoo on the roof overhead.
Inside the small, grease-stained office at the back of the warehouse, three men sat around a folding card table lit by a single overhead bulb. On the table rested an open laptop, a half-empty bottle of bourbon, and a stack of forged municipal permits.
“Orsini’s moving,” one of the men muttered, tapping the screen of a burner phone. “Our scout at the Garden District gate confirmed it. He took the bait. He’s heading down Magazine Street toward the old district docks.”
At the head of the table sat Arthur Vance—the former fire marshal whose bank account had grown by eighty thousand dollars three years ago. He took a slow sip of bourbon, his eyes cold and calculating behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“Let him look,” Vance said, his voice raspy from cheap cigarettes. “By the time Carmine Orsini figures out which shipping container holds the old man, Victor Salvator’s freight liner will already be six miles out in the Gulf of Mexico, heading south.”
“And the girl?” the second man asked, flicking ash onto the concrete floor. “If Orsini connects her to the Fontaine property deeds, she’s going to keep digging.”
“She’s a maid,” Vance scoffed, leaning back in his folding chair with a dry laugh. “She scrubs floors and bakes pies. She doesn't have the stomach for a war. Once Orsini realizes her father is a liability, he’ll cut her loose himself. That’s how men like Carmine operate. Family first, collateral damage second.”
“You sound pretty sure of how an Orsini operates, Arthur.”
The voice didn't come from the two thugs at the table.
It came from the dark, unlit corner near the bay door.
Vance froze, his whiskey glass halting halfway to his mouth. The two enforcers scrambled backward, their chairs screeching against the concrete as they reached frantically for the heavy steel-framed revolvers holstered at their belts.
From the shadows, Benny stepped forward first, his broad shoulders filling the dim space, a suppressed pistol held steady at waist height.
And behind him walked Carmine Orsini.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore. His white dress shirt was open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the lean, coiled tension of a man accustomed to violence disguised as business.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Arthur,” Carmine said smoothly, his dark eyes fixed on the former fire marshal. “My family doesn't cut people loose. We collect debts.”
Vance slammed his glass down onto the card table, liquor splashing across the forged permits. “You’re trespassing on Salvator property, Orsini. You think you can walk in here—?”
Before Vance could finish the sentence, Benny crossed the room in two strides, slammed the barrel of his gun against the side of Vance’s head, and shoved him face-first onto the table. The laptop clattered to the floor, screen cracking against the concrete.
“Where is Emmett Fontaine?” Carmine asked, stepping closer. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
Vance groaned, blood trickling from his temple onto the greasy metal table. “I don't... I don't know what you’re talking about...”
Carmine crouched down so his face was level with the terrified fire marshal’s.
“Marcus Vance,” Carmine whispered, pronouncing every syllable with terrifying clarity. “Three years ago, you took eighty thousand dollars to call an arson an accident. Today, you take an old man to leverage a girl who makes pecan pie. You’re not a businessman, Arthur. You’re a municipal parasite.”
Carmine reached out, catching Vance’s index finger in his grip, and bent it back just an inch.
A sharp, high-pitched shriek tore from Vance’s throat.
“The warehouse,” Vance sobbed, the defiance evaporating in a heartbeat. “Pier 42! Terminal B! The old cold-storage lockers by the grain elevators. He’s there!”
Carmine let go of the man’s hand, standing up and dusting off his cuff as if he had just brushed away a speck of dust. He looked down at Benny.
May you like
“Tie them up. Leave them for the harbor police.”
Then Carmine turned on his heel and walked out into the rain, leaving the safehouse behind.
