Chapter 3 - THE SHIPMENT IN THE DARK
My hands were shaking so violently I nearly dropped the phone.
Plan B is initiated. The shipment arrives tonight at the docks.
I stared at the glowing screen, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Bianca hadn't just been torturing an old man to cover up a murder. She was actively orchestrating something far larger, something that required keeping the most powerful mafia boss in Chicago distracted and confined to his own home.
I had to tell Vincent.
I turned and sprinted out of the study, practically sliding across the polished hardwood floors of the hallway. I threw open the door to Frank's room without knocking.
Vincent was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a glass of water for his father. He looked up, his dark eyes instantly narrowing at the sheer panic on my face.
“Julia, what is it?” Vincent demanded, his voice shifting instantly from a grieving son to the lethal boss of the Marino syndicate.
“I was in Bianca's study,” I gasped, struggling to catch my breath. “Her phone rang. I saw a text message.”
Vincent stood up, the glass of water forgotten on the nightstand. “What did it say?”
“It said the old man talked, and Plan B is initiated,” I recited, my voice trembling. “It said a shipment arrives tonight at the docks, and... and they told her not to let you leave the house.”
Vincent’s face went completely still. The color drained from his cheeks, leaving him looking like a ghost sculpted from marble.
“The docks,” Vincent whispered, looking at his father.
Frank’s eyes widened in sudden, absolute terror. He gripped the armrests of his chair, attempting to stand up, his frail legs shaking.
“Vinny,” Frank choked out. “The docks. Tonight is the night the Romano family moves the artillery.”
My stomach plummeted. The Romanos were the Marinos' oldest, bloodiest rivals. A peace treaty had held the two families apart for five years, but it was fragile, built on mutual fear rather than respect.
“Bianca’s father,” Vincent breathed, the horrifying puzzle pieces snapping together in his mind. “He’s a capo for my family. He manages the South Side docks. If he opens the gates for a Romano weapons shipment...”
“It’s a coup,” Frank finished, his voice cracking. “They’re bringing in enough firepower to wipe out our entire inner circle in one night. Bianca was supposed to keep you here, oblivious, until they had the perimeter surrounded.”
Vincent didn't waste another second. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a heavy, black smartphone, dialing a number from memory.
“Marco,” Vincent barked into the phone, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure violence. “I need every man we have on the South Side docks right now. Full tactical gear.”
I watched him, terrified. The man who had been weeping on his father's knee five minutes ago was gone. In his place stood a general preparing for war.
Vincent listened for a moment, his jaw clenching tight.
“I don't care if it breaks the treaty, Marco!” Vincent roared, making me flinch. “The treaty is already broken! Bianca’s father sold us out to the Romanos. They’re moving a shipment tonight. We intercept it, we burn it, and we bring me his head. Move!”
He hung up the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. He turned to me, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
“Julia,” Vincent said, his voice dropping to a calm, authoritative command. “You are not a maid tonight. You are my father’s guard. You lock this door. You do not open it for anyone except me or Marco. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I nodded quickly, terrified but resolute.
“Vinny, wait,” Frank called out, reaching a trembling hand toward his son.
Vincent stopped, turning back to his father. “Dad, I have to go. If they get those weapons into the city, we’re dead.”
“I know, son,” Frank said, his eyes filled with a desperate, agonizing fear. “But you have to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Don't kill her father,” Frank pleaded, his voice breaking.
Vincent stared at him, shocked. “Dad, he orchestrated a coup. He tried to have me killed. He helped cover up Mom’s murder.”
“I know,” Frank wept, shaking his head. “But if you kill a capo without a trial before the Commission, you start a civil war within our own ranks. The other families will use it as an excuse to burn us down. You have to take him alive, Vinny. You have to expose him.”
Vincent stared at his father, the conflict warring visibly on his face. The desire for vengeance against the man who had helped protect his mother's killer was overwhelming, but his father’s logic was flawless. A mafia boss couldn't survive on rage alone; he needed strategy.
“I’ll bring him back breathing, Dad,” Vincent promised, his voice heavy with restraint. “But I can't promise he’ll be walking.”
Vincent turned and sprinted out of the room.
I immediately slammed the heavy oak door shut and threw the deadbolt. I dragged a heavy armchair in front of the door, barricading us inside.
I turned back to Frank. He was sitting in his chair, staring blankly at the wall, his chest heaving with exhaustion and fear.
“Frank?” I asked softly, kneeling beside him. “Are you okay?”
He looked at me, a profound, tragic sadness in his eyes.
“I lost my wife to this life, Julia,” Frank whispered, his voice cracking. “I won't lose my son, too.”
We sat in silence for what felt like hours, listening to the agonizingly quiet house. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind against the windows, made my heart skip a beat.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the sound of screeching tires and a massive crash outside the mansion.
I scrambled to the window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtains just enough to peek outside.
My blood ran cold.
It wasn't Vincent coming back.
Three black SUVs had crashed through the front gates of the estate, tearing across the manicured lawn. Heavily armed men in tactical gear were pouring out of the vehicles, raising assault rifles, advancing on the front doors.
“Frank,” I gasped, backing away from the window in sheer terror. “There are men outside. They’re breaking into the house.”
Frank didn't panic. He stood up slowly, pushing himself out of his chair with a strength I hadn't seen in him since I started working here.
He walked to the heavy oak wardrobe in the corner of the room. He didn't reach for a shirt. He reached his hand behind the heavy wood panelling at the back of the closet.
I heard a loud, metallic click.
A hidden panel slid open.
Frank reached inside and pulled out a heavy, sawed-off shotgun. He checked the chamber with practiced, deadly precision, his hands completely steady.
He turned to look at me, his eyes cold and hardened by a lifetime in the mafia.
“They didn't just plan a shipment tonight, Julia,” Frank said, his voice a low, lethal growl. “They planned an execution. They waited for Vincent to leave.”
He racked the shotgun, the sound deafening in the quiet room.
“But they forgot about the old man,” Frank said. “And they forgot about the safe.”
“What safe?” I asked, my voice shaking.
Frank walked over to the bed, gripping the edge of the heavy mattress, and hoisted it up with a grunt of exertion.
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Underneath the mattress, built directly into the floorboards, was a small, heavy steel safe.
“The safe that holds the only thing that can prove who really ordered my wife’s murder,” Frank whispered, looking directly into my eyes. “It wasn't Bianca, Julia. She just pushed the body.”
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