Chapter 5 - The Ledger of Providence
The storm outside had intensified into a howling nor'easter by midnight, shaking the windowpanes of a secluded safehouse located six miles north of Newport, tucked deep into the rolling hills of Portsmouth.
Corrie sat on a leather sofa that smelled of old leather and pipe tobacco, a steaming mug of black coffee cradled in her trembling hands. Across the room, standing by a roaring stone fireplace, Marcus was calmly wiping down a suppressed 9mm pistol with an oily rag.
"The man who came through your door," Corrie said, her voice small but steady, "he was working for the Syndicate out of Boston, wasn't he? The same people who killed David."
Marcus didn't look up from his weapon. "Boston has a lot of stray dogs, Mrs. Hayes. Some of them forget whose garbage they're allowed to pick through. Whitlock was their primary conduit inside Hallowmere. When Mr. Moretti fired him, the network panicked. They realized Whitlock kept backups of everything—including the shipping manifests from five years ago."
"Why did they kill David?" Corrie asked, the question she had carried like a physical weight for half a decade finally breaking free. "He was just a dock supervisor. He didn't care about syndicate politics."
"David Hayes caught a shipment of medical supplies coming off a freighter from Marseilles," Marcus said, laying the pistol down on the mantelpiece with a soft clack. "Except the crates weren't filled with pharmaceuticals. They were filled with unregistered bearer bonds and tactical communications hardware. David told the port authority he was going to flag the manifest for federal inspection. Whitlock, acting as an off-the-books auditor for the importers, arranged the 'accident' at crane bay four."
Corrie closed her eyes. The grief she thought she had buried under years of survival suddenly flared up, hot and blinding, instantly replaced by a cold, hardened resolve.
"And Domenico?" she asked, opening her eyes to look directly at the large enforcer. "Why does he care? Why protect me? Why clean up a mess that happened five years ago?"
Marcus offered a grim, humorless smile. "Domenico Moretti doesn't do charity, Mrs. Hayes. But he has a code. Hallowmere Manor was bought with clean money, and he intends to keep it that way. If Boston thinks they can use his estate as a staging ground for assassinations and dirty money, they picked the wrong island."
The heavy oak door of the study behind the fireplace opened, and Domenico Moretti walked into the room. He had just flown in from Zurich; he wore a dark charcoal overcoat over a tailored suit, his dark hair damp from the rain, but he looked as sharp and composed as if he had spent the evening in a boardroom.
"Marcus," Domenico said without breaking stride. "Leave us."
The enforcer nodded silently, scooped up his weapon, and slipped out of the room, closing the heavy door behind him.
Domenico walked over to the fireplace, holding his hands out toward the flames for a moment before turning to face Corrie. His stormy gray eyes studied her with an intense, analytical curiosity.
"You didn't panic," Domenico observed, leaning his shoulder against the stone mantel. "Most people would have dropped the lamp and hidden under the bed."
"Most people haven't spent four months living under Everett Whitlock's thumb while wondering if their daughter is going to be taken away by the state," Corrie replied, setting her mug down on the low table. She stood up to face him, her height insignificant next to his towering frame, but her posture unwavering. "You said you wanted to clean house, Mr. Moretti. What's the next step? Because I'm tired of running."
May you like
Domenico stared at her for a long, silent moment. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his lips.
"The next step," Domenico said quietly, "is that we go to Boston."
