Chapter 8 - THE GHOSTS OF ATLANTIC CITYThe rain beat a relentless, rhythmic tattoo against the bulletproof glass of Dominic’s private study.
It had been a week since Nathan Cross and Claire Bennett vanished from the estate. In the underworld, rumors spread like wildfire—some whispered they had fled to South America with millions in stolen cash, while others knew the grim reality of the West Milford quarry. But the truth was buried deeper than any stone vault: neither name would ever be uttered in polite company again.
Dominic sat behind his mahogany desk, reviewing a fresh stack of shipping manifests brought in by Marcus.
Suddenly, the encrypted satellite phone resting near his elbow began to vibrate.
It wasn't a standard ringtone. It was a restricted frequency—one that only connected to high-level federal contacts and deep-cover informants operating inside rival families across the eastern seaboard.
Dominic picked it up and pressed it to his ear.
“Vale,” he said flatly.
“Dom. It’s Miller,” a gravelly, tired voice came through the encrypted line. Special Agent Miller of the FBI’s Organized Crime division—a man Dominic had traded information with in gray alleys for over a decade.
“You’re calling on a secure line, Miller,” Dominic said, leaning back in his chair. “That usually means you want a favor, or you’re about to ruin my evening.”
“A little bit of both,” Miller sighed on the other end. “We’ve been running forensics on the offshore shell accounts you dropped into our drop-box last Tuesday—the ones belonging to Nathan and Claire.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“And those accounts didn't just fund local real estate, Dom. Nathan wasn't just skimming from your ports. For the last six months, he was funneling syndicate capital into a much larger, international syndicate operating out of Montreal and Marseille.”
Dominic went completely still. The hum of the study seemed to fade into absolute silence.
“Go on,” Dominic ordered.
“It wasn't an internal coup, Dom,” Miller said grimly. “Nathan wasn't planning to retire to the Caymans. He was selling your entire logistics network to the Sicilian Commission. Claire wasn't his partner in crime—she was his handler, planted by the European families to destabilize your empire from the inside out before the upcoming port expansion vote.”
A cold fury surged through Dominic’s veins. Nathan wasn't just a traitor to a friend; he was a traitor to the entire bloodline of the East Coast underworld. And Claire wasn't a social-climbing gold digger—she was an assassin in a designer coat.
“Are there others?” Dominic asked, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper.
“We’re still tracing the encrypted nodes,” Miller replied. “Which is why I’m calling you. Two days ago, a high-ranking captain in the Montreal crew took a flight out of JFK bound for New York. His name is Vincent Vance. And according to our airport surveillance, he’s not here to negotiate a treaty. He’s here to find out why Nathan and Claire went dark.”
Dominic stood up from his desk, walking slowly toward the rain-streaked window.
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“When does he land?” Dominic asked.
“He’s already on the ground, Dom,” Miller said gravely. “And he knows you’re the one holding the keys to the kingdom.”
