Chapter 6 - The Trap at the DocksThe rain had started again, turning the gravel courtyard of the Castellano estate into a slick, dark mirror. Maya didn't stay locked in the office. The moment Vincent’s footsteps faded down the grand staircase, she grabbed her heavy coat, unlocked the side service door, and slipped out into the freezing mist.
She couldn't just sit there. The red folder sat open on the desk like a ticking clock, and the look in Vincent's eyes had told her everything she needed to know: this wasn't a routine turf war anymore. It was personal.
Creeping along the shadowed perimeter of the estate’s outer wall, Maya reached the northern vehicle gates just as a convoy of black SUVs tore down the private access road toward the old shipping warehouse near the harbor. She ducked behind a stack of wooden crates, her breath pluming in the icy air.
Duke was already there.
The massive Cane Corso hadn't stayed behind in the kennels. He trotted alongside Vincent’s lead vehicle like a phantom shadow, his muscles bunching with lethal intent.
Maya slipped through the perimeter fence through a gap she’d noticed during her first days of chores, shadowing the convoy on foot.
At the harbor warehouse, the scene was a war zone of tension. Two massive container trucks sat idling under the harsh glare of industrial floodlights. Several of Vincent’s armed guards stood with their weapons drawn, forming a semicircle around the back doors of the lead trailer.
Vincent stood at the center, his black overcoat billowing slightly in the coastal wind. He didn't flinch as he motioned for the guards to lower the heavy metal latch of the truck.
"Open it," Vincent commanded.
Two guards heaved the latch upward. The metal doors swung wide open with a deafening screech of rusted hinges.
Inside, there was no cargo. No weapons, no smuggled goods. Only a single wooden chair bolted to the floor, surrounded by pools of fresh, dark blood. Tied securely to the chair, gagged and bleeding profusely from a head wound, was Isabella Cross.
A collective gasp echoed among the guards. Isabella’s eyes were wide with sheer, unadulterated terror, her elegant white coat stained with crimson. Taped to her chest with packing tape was a crude white envelope bearing a single hand-drawn letter: M.
Vincent walked forward slowly, his expression chillingly blank. He didn't look panicked; he looked like a man who had just found a bomb with his name on it.
"Boss," one of the senior guards whispered, stepping close. "It's a trap. Moretti’s men could be positioned on the catwalks right now—"
"Cut her loose," Vincent ordered, his voice cutting through the wind.
Before the guard could reach her, a red laser dot flickered across the chest of Vincent's coat.
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Click.
From the shadows of the warehouse catwalks high above, the distinct sound of a sniper rifle bolt echoed through the night.
