Chapter 7 - The Trap at the Docks
By midday, the rain had started, drumming a relentless rhythm against the slate roofs of the city’s shipping district.
Warehouse Four sat at the end of the dilapidated pier, its corrugated metal walls rusting in the salty sea air. Inside, crates of imported Italian tiles were stacked to the ceiling, casting long, geometric shadows across the concrete floor.
Alessandro Moretti stood in the dim light near the back entrance, his black trench coat damp from the rain. Behind him stood six of his most trusted enforcers, their weapons concealed beneath their coats.
Marco checked his watch. “They’re late.”
“They’ll come,” Alessandro said quietly. “Greed makes men punctual.”
Five minutes later, the low rumble of a diesel engine echoed outside. A black sedan pulled up to the loading bay, its headlights cutting through the sheets of rain. Two men stepped out, pulling their hoods up against the storm. One of them carried a leather briefcase.
They entered the warehouse cautiously, looking around the cavernous space.
“Vincenzo said this drop was clean,” the first man muttered, his voice bouncing off the metal walls.
“Vincenzo is currently rethinking his life choices in a concrete box,” a deep, resonant voice echoed from the shadows.
The two men froze.
Alessandro stepped out from behind a stack of tile crates, his gray eyes fixed on them. Marco and the enforcers fanned out, blocking the exits before the couriers could reach the door.
“Moretti,” the man with the briefcase gasped, his hand dropping toward his coat.
“Don’t,” Alessandro warned, his hand resting casually on his holster. “Unless you want to find out if your reflexes are faster than a bullet.”
The man slowly raised his hands, stepping back against a stack of pallets. “We’re just messengers. We don’t want trouble.”
“You brought stolen port encryption keys into my city,” Alessandro said, closing the distance between them with predatory calm. “That isn't trouble. That's a declaration of war.”
“The Sabatinis send their regards,” the courier sneered, a desperate bravado taking over. “You think you rule this city, Moretti? You’re isolated. You trust no one. Your own men betray you. It’s only a matter of time before someone gets past your walls—”
Alessandro struck him across the face with the back of his hand. The force of the blow sent the courier crashing into the crates, the leather briefcase flying from his grip and hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
Marco stepped forward, kicking the briefcase open. Inside sat bundles of cash and a secure hard drive containing the Moretti family’s shipping manifests.
Alessandro looked down at the fallen man, his face a mask of cold fury. But as he stood there in the damp, echoing warehouse, a strange thought flashed through his mind—not of the betrayal, not of the Sabatinis, but of a little girl with honey-colored eyes sitting on his chest, asking if his clock was singing.
May you like
His walls had been breached. His security had failed. A traitor had walked among them for years.
And yet, because of a child who didn't know the rules, he had caught them all.
