Chapter 4 - The Backroom Ledger
The private office of Lorenzo Duca after a tactical raid was not a place for rest; it was a command bunker that smelled of wet wool, espresso, and the sharp, chemical tang of gun oil. By two in the morning, the broken glass in the grand hall had been boarded up with heavy plywood, and six additional Varro guards—men who didn't look like they had ever eaten gas station sushi—stood at thirty-foot intervals along the bluff driveway.
Mia sat on the edge of a green leather chesterfield sofa, wearing an oversized gray cashmere sweater that belonged to Matteo, her own black blazer currently spinning in the estate’s industrial dryer. Her hands were wrapped around a heavy porcelain mug of black coffee, her eyes fixed on the digital map displayed on Lorenzo’s desk monitor.
Matteo stood behind her, his fingers lightly resting on the wooden back of the sofa, his dark shirt clean but rumpled at the collar.
"The Ferretti family didn't act alone," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifyingly patient tone that usually preceded a corporate liquidation. He tapped a finger against a printed list of banking routing numbers. "The bypass codes for our north gate were generated from an internal server at the Port Emery Maritime Exchange. Someone on the harbor board sold us out to New York."
"It was Vance," Matteo said, his voice flat. "He’s been trying to clear the zoning permits for the Ferretti warehouses in Rhode Island for six months. My father’s trucks have been blocking their access to the main rail spur."
Mia took a slow sip of her coffee, her photographic memory instantly pulling up the third page of the Ferretti file she had skimmed in Hensley’s office. "It’s not Vance," she said.
Both Duca men turned to look at her.
"Vance didn't have the administrative clearance for gate four," Mia explained, setting her mug down with a soft click. "Gate four was installed three months ago during the security upgrade. Only three people had the cryptographic key: you, Mr. Duca," she nodded at Lorenzo, "Carlo DeLuca, and the compliance officer at Varro Security—Mr. Hensley."
The silence in the room grew heavy, the sound of the rain outside now a distant, muffled hum against the plywood boards below.
Matteo’s hand tightened on the sofa frame. "Hensley? He’s run Varro for twelve years. My father pays half his operating budget."
"Which means the Ferretti family paid the other half," Mia said, standing up and pulling the oversized sweater down over her knees. "Think about the timing, Matteo. The top guard breaks his leg. The backup gets food poisoning. The third choice has a convenient wedding in Napa. Hensley didn't leave you with me because he was desperate. He left you with me because he thought I would fail within the first ten minutes of the shift. He told your father I was soft because he wanted you unprotected when Silvio arrived with the waiver."
Lorenzo Duca didn't look angry; he looked old, his gray eyes narrowing as he stared at the list of routing numbers. "A man who sells his own people is an insect," he whispered. "Carlo."
"Sir," Carlo said from the doorway.
"Do not call the police," Lorenzo commanded. "Call the director of the Varro board. Tell him Mr. Hensley has experienced a sudden, catastrophic career change. And have the car brought around. We’re going to the city office."
"Sir, the roads are still flooded," Carlo warned.
"Then Miss Callaway will drive," Lorenzo said, his eyes shifting to Mia with that cold, unreadable crease. "She seems to have a very effective relationship with the municipal water district."
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Matteo walked toward the door, stopping beside Mia as she reached for her dry blazer which Carlo had just brought in. "You're driving?" he asked, his mouth twisting into that familiar smirk. "Should I wear a helmet?"
"Mr. Duca," Mia said, slipping her arms into the black fabric, her shoulder adjusting with a sharp, professional snap. "If I can handle a three-hundred-year-old crystal chandelier, I can handle a twelve-cylinder armored sedan. Just make sure you keep your seatbelt fastened."
