Chapter 4 - The Decryption Room
By 6:00 AM, the rising sun had painted the harbor in streaks of bruised purple and gold. Nora sat at a sleek steel desk in Roman’s private study, surrounded by three dual-monitor screens displaying raw data intercepts, encrypted audio waveforms, and shipping manifests pulled by Roman’s intelligence network.
Her fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years hacking through military firewalls.
Roman stood behind her, watching the scrolling green text reflect in her tired eyes.
“It’s not just contraband,” Nora muttered, leaning closer to the screen, her voice dropping into a hyper-focused professional register. “Look at the routing codes on manifest 74-Delta. These aren't standard shipping containers. They’re heavy-grade industrial telemetry units.”
“Telemetry?” Roman frowned, resting a hand on the back of her chair. “Explain.”
“They’re modifying container tracking tags,” Nora typed rapidly, bringing up a complex schematic. “They aren't smuggling drugs or weapons, Roman. They’re hacking the port authority's digital grid. They’re rerouting automated freight cranes to offload unmarked cargo crates directly into independent trucks before customs ever scans them.”
Roman’s expression darkened instantly. The casual, sardonic mob boss vanished, replaced by a ruthless syndicate leader whose territory was being systematically undermined.
“If they control the automated cranes,” Roman whispered, “they control the entire waterfront. My logistics company would take the fall for any federal violations while they move whatever they want through our gates.”
“Exactly,” Nora said, hitting a final key combination. The screen flashed green, unlocking a hidden sub-file. “And here’s the kicker. Look at the signature on the transmission logs. It’s routed through an encrypted proxy server based out of a shell corporation in Delaware.”
Roman leaned down, his face inches from her shoulder as he stared at the screen. The scent of cedarwood and sharp cologne washed over her.
“A shell company,” Roman murmured. “Registered under what name?”
“Silverthorne Holdings,” Nora read off the screen. “Managed by a man named David Mercer.”
Nora stopped typing. Her hands hovered over the keys.
David.
May you like
The sweaty, terrified floor manager of Leto who had fired her at two in the morning to protect his restaurant.
“Your restaurant manager,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. “The man who threw you out into the rain.”
