Chapter 7 - THE SHIPYARD
The Chicago shipyard was a sprawling labyrinth of rusted shipping containers, massive cranes, and dark, oily water.
The rain had turned into a freezing drizzle, coating everything in a thin layer of ice.
Anthony parked the SUV a block away. We moved silently on foot, slipping through a cut in the chain-link fence.
The air smelled of salt, diesel, and rust.
“My father bought this yard thirty years ago,” Anthony whispered as we moved between two towering stacks of blue containers. “It was supposed to be the legitimate side of the business. The Russos always wanted it.”
“And now Bianca thinks it’s hers,” I said.
“Not tonight.”
We approached Warehouse 4, a massive corrugated steel building at the edge of the docks. The heavy sliding door was open just enough to let a sliver of yellow light spill onto the wet concrete.
Anthony drew his weapon. He signaled for me to stay put behind a stack of wooden pallets, then moved silently toward the gap in the door.
He peered inside.
He didn’t move for five seconds.
Then, he lowered his gun and stepped fully into the light.
“Come out, Kate,” he called back. His voice was strange. Hollow.
I stepped out from behind the pallets and walked to the door, my heart pounding in my throat.
I looked inside.
The warehouse was completely empty, save for a single wooden chair in the center of the concrete floor.
Sitting in the chair was Bianca.
She was wearing her beautiful ivory coat, perfectly buttoned. Her makeup was flawless.
But she wasn’t moving.
Her head was slumped forward, her chin resting on her chest.
Anthony walked slowly toward her. I followed, unable to look away.
Answer one.
Bianca hadn’t come to the shipyard to set a trap.
She had come here to die.
Anthony reached out and gently lifted her chin.
Her eyes were open, vacant. A single, clean bullet hole pierced the center of her forehead.
Open two.
If Bianca was the mastermind, who killed her? And why?
“She’s been dead for at least an hour,” Anthony said, feeling the icy skin of her neck.
“But the GPS track said she just arrived,” I said, confused.
Anthony looked down at Bianca’s lap.
Resting on her ivory coat was a heavy, silver pocket watch.
Not Daniel’s watch.
A different one.
Anthony picked it up. He popped the casing open.
Inside, tucked behind the glass, was a small, hand-written note.
Anthony read it. The blood drained from his face completely.
He handed the note to me.
I read the elegant, looping handwriting.
My dearest Anthony, Bianca was ambitious, but she was foolish. She thought she could use the cleaning girl to expose me. She thought she could take the empire. But I built this empire. I removed your father when he grew weak. I removed Daniel when he grew nosy. And I removed Bianca when she became a liability.
I stopped reading, my mind violently rejecting the words.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “Your security guard said your mother was dead. Poisoned.”
The reversal hit like a freight train.
“She faked it,” Anthony breathed, the horror dawning on him. “She didn’t drink the tea. She staged her own death so we would stop hunting her, while her loyal men brought Bianca here to execute her.”
His own mother was the apex predator. She had played everyone.
Suddenly, the heavy steel doors of the warehouse slammed shut behind us with a deafening crash.
The overhead lights flickered, then blazed to life, blindingly bright.
Standing on a metal catwalk twenty feet above us, looking down with a terrifying, serene smile, was Anthony’s mother.
She was dressed in a sharp black mourning suit, entirely unharmed.
Flanking her were four men armed with automatic rifles.
“Hello, Anthony,” she said smoothly, her voice echoing in the cavernous space.
Anthony raised his gun, pointing it directly at his mother.
“You’re a monster,” Anthony roared.
“I am a survivor,” she corrected calmly. “I did what had to be done to preserve the Romano name.”
“By killing my father? My brother?”
“They were weak!” she snapped, her serene mask slipping for a fraction of a second. “They wanted peace. Peace is just a slow death in our world.”
She looked down at me.
“And you. The bastard Russo girl. Bianca thought she was so clever, bringing you into the fold. But you’re just a loose end.”
She raised her hand, signaling the men on the catwalk.
“Kill them both,” she ordered. “Make it look like Bianca shot Anthony, and then herself.”
The men raised their rifles.
I closed my eyes.
But before a single shot was fired, the entire warehouse plunged into absolute darkness.
Someone had cut the main power line.
And in the pitch black, a new voice echoed from the shadows below the catwalk.
May you like
“Drop the weapons. Now.”
It was the funeral director.
