Chapter 8 - The Betrayal at Pier NineteenThe silence in the archive room was absolute.
Matteo didn't look surprised. He didn't gasp or shout. He simply closed his eyes for a brief second, exhaling slowly through his nose.
"You have proof?" Matteo asked, his voice chillingly calm.
Tessa slid a single sheet of paper across the desk. It was a printed bank transfer log she had intercepted from the corporate network using administrative override codes Frank had given her.
"Fifty thousand dollars wired yesterday from an offshore account registered to a shell company called V-Holdings," Tessa said. "Sent directly to Luca’s personal Swiss account. In exchange, he gave them the manifest numbers for your private cargo ship arriving at Pier Nineteen tomorrow night."
Matteo stared at the paper.
When he looked back up at Tessa, his eyes were burning with a dark, terrifying intensity.
"Tomorrow night," Matteo said quietly. "That ship is carrying our primary import supply for the tri-state area. If Vanguard hits it, my organization is crippled."
"Unless," Tessa said, a daring, brilliant smile touching her lips, "we give them exactly what they want to see."
Matteo tilted his head, watching her with a mixture of fascination and respect. "And what is that?"
"A trap," Tessa said, leaning forward. "You let Luca think his plan is working. You send the ship to Pier Nineteen, but we load the containers with decoy cargo and tracking beacons. When Vanguard moves in to seize the shipment, you don't just catch them—you catch every single corporate board member backing them."
Matteo stood motionless for a moment. Then, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—the look of a true predator who had just outsmarted his prey.
"You didn't belong at Bellaforte, Tessa," Matteo said, stepping closer until he was standing right beside her chair, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "You belong on a battlefield."
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"I just prefer good grammar and accurate translations, Mr. Moretti," Tessa replied, her heart beating a little faster against her ribs.
"Call me Matteo," he said softly, reaching down to place his scarred hand over the edge of the desk, inches from her fingers.
