Chapter 8 - The Rhode Island Transfer
The maritime terminal in Providence was an expanse of concrete piers, gray corrugated iron warehouses, and the constant, industrial scream of heavy cranes lifting cargo containers from the decks of Atlantic freighters. The rain had returned, a soft, misty drizzle that turned the oil stains on the pavement into small, rainbow-colored pools under the high crane lights.
Mia stood on the upper observation platform of warehouse three, wearing a yellow high-visibility vest over her navy suit, a digital clipboard in her left hand. Beside her stood Lorenzo Duca, his black coat collar turned up against the mist, his gold-headed cane resting flat against the steel grating of the rail.
Below them, forty Duca transport trucks stood in a perfect, synchronized line, their engines idling with a deep, rhythmic rumble that shook the platform structure.
"The Ferretti drivers signed the new labor agreements at noon, Miss Callaway," Lorenzo said, his gray eyes tracking the movement of a massive container ship clearing the harbor mouth. "They were surprisingly cooperative when they realized their pension funds hadn't disappeared into Hensley’s Nassau accounts."
"They’re drivers, Mr. Duca," Mia said, her fingers updating the logistics tracking system on her screen. "They don't care about the name on the gate. They care about the fuel clearance and the route security. I adjusted their transit hours to minimize the bridge bottlenecks."
Lorenzo didn't look at the clipboard. He looked down at the courtyard where Matteo was currently speaking to a group of dock foremen, his long coat open to the rain, his gestures quick and decisive as he handled the transition.
"My father always told me that a woman could not manage a transport line because the docks require a fist, Mia," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly tone that always carried the weight of thirty winters. "He was wrong. The docks don't require a fist. They require an eye that can see the fracture before the iron cracks."
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, old-fashioned silver key ring with three heavy brass keys—the administrative override keys to the Rhode Island maritime exchange. He set them flat on top of her digital clipboard.
"The compliance director has full administrative authority over the northern division now, Miss Callaway," Lorenzo said, giving her that short, rare crease around his eyes. "Try not to test the structural integrity of the main gates before the insurance policy is updated."
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Mia took the keys, the heavy brass cool against her palm. "Thank you, sir. I’ll make sure the trash cans are bolted to the concrete."
As Lorenzo walked down the steel steps toward his waiting sedan, Matteo looked up from the pier floor, his gray eyes catching hers through the rain mist. He didn't wave—he wasn't a man for public display—but he gave her that slow, beautiful grin that told her he had already ordered the clam chowder at the tavern down the street, and that he was simply waiting for her shift to end.
