Chapter 11 - The Phantom Shipments
The sudden disappearance of Arthur Foster left the Weston estate in a state of quiet, unbroken peace for exactly six days. But in the underworld of Boston, vacuums never lasted long.
Dileia sat at the massive mahogany desk in Adriano’s private study, a cup of Earl Grey tea cooling beside her elbow. Spread across the leather blotter were the quarterly import logs for the Falcone shipping lines. Ever since she had exposed Marcus Vance's treachery, Adriano had started bringing her into the logistical side of the syndicate, trusting her sharp eye more than any of his veteran capos.
As her eyes scanned the rows of container numbers, cargo weights, and port destinations, a chilling inconsistency jumped out at her.
"Adriano," she called out without looking up, hearing the heavy footsteps of her husband enter the room.
Adriano walked over, his dark shirt sleeves rolled up, a mug of black coffee in his hand. He leaned over her shoulder, his warm breath brushing against her neck. "What is it, moya zvezda?"
"Look at manifest 44-B," she pointed a slim finger at a row of numbers near the bottom of the page. "The weight of the cargo coming out of Rotterdam doesn't match the volume of steel declared. It's off by twelve tons."
Adriano’s casual posture vanished instantly. He straightened up, his gray eyes narrowing as he studied the figures. "Twelve tons of dead weight. That's not steel. That's either high-grade munitions or something they're trying to hide from customs."
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"And it's stamped with a sub-contractor code that belongs to the Verhoven group," Dileia added, her heart skipping a beat. "The Dutch syndicate. I thought you cut ties with them last year."
"I did," Adriano said, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous, icy register. "Which means someone inside my own inner circle is rebuilding the pipeline behind my back."
