Chapter 5 - A Delivery to the Gate
The midday sun beat down on the gravel driveway of the Castello estate, turning the polished iron of the perimeter gates into a dull glare. I stood by the second-floor service window with a basket of pressed linens tucked against my hip, watching the heavy-duty security van idle outside the outer wall. Vic, Dante's head of security, stood by the intercom box with a clipboard in hand, his shoulders squared under a tight gray polo shirt. He spoke into the radio clipped to his collar, then gestured for the gates to slide open just wide enough to receive a small, unmarked courier parcel from a local delivery service.
Ten minutes later, the house phone in the utility corridor rang twice. Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, answered it with a curt nod, her expression tightening into the familiar mask of disciplined indifference she wore whenever the outside world tried to bleed through the estate's masonry. She set the receiver down, wiped her palms on her apron, and turned her sharp gaze across the worktable toward me.
"Sadi. Front desk. A drop-off came through the gate registry," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "Sign for it and get back to the linen room immediately. The caterers arrive at three, and I want the north gallery floors redone before the trucks back in."
I dried my damp hands on my apron, my stomach twisting into a cold, hard knot. The walk down the marble corridor to the security desk felt longer than it should have. The young guard on duty—a kid with cropped brown hair named Miller whom Dante had hired out of a local private detail—didn't look up when I approached. He simply slid a thick manila envelope across the dark oak counter. My name was scrawled across the front in jagged, hurried ballpoint ink: Sadi Castello. Except I wasn't a Castello. I was just help. The ink felt heavy, like wet lead.
"Who left it?" I asked, my voice barely carrying over the hum of the central air conditioning.
"Courier dropped it at the perimeter box. Said it was time-sensitive," Miller muttered, tapping a pen against the blotter. "Vic checked the x-ray scanner before he let it through. No explosives. Just paper and metal."
I picked up the envelope. It had the bulky, uneven heft of something rigid stuffed inside cheap padding. I didn't open it at the front desk. I carried it straight down the service stairs, past the walk-in pantries and the boiler room, until I reached the cramped, windowless laundry room at the back of the basement wing. The air down here always smelled of industrial bleach and damp cotton.
I locked the heavy wooden door behind me, leaned back against it, and tore open the glued flap.
A small, silver pocket watch slid out first, landing softly on the metal folding table with a dull clink. The crystal face was cracked diagonally across the Roman numerals, the second hand frozen at four-fifteen. It was our grandfather's watch—the one Leo had kept in his top drawer ever since we lost the house in Allentown. My breath caught in my throat, a sharp, ragged sound that scraped against my ribs.
Beneath the watch lay a folded sheet of lined notebook paper. I unfolded it with trembling, bruised fingers. The message was written in the same jagged handwriting as the envelope: Next time it's a finger, Sadi. Tell your boss his protection doesn't reach past the county line. Tell him we're coming for the balance.
"They're not coming for anything," a low voice said from the doorway.
I jumped, dropping the note back onto the table as I spun around. Dante stood in the narrow entrance of the laundry room, taking up nearly the entire doorframe. He had discarded his jacket hours ago, wearing only a dark button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the intricate, dark ink winding up his forearms. His face was entirely unreadable, his dark eyes locked on the silver watch resting beside the torn envelope.
"Dante—I was just—"
He didn't let me finish. He crossed the small room in three long, silent strides, his boots clicking against the concrete floor. Without a word, he reached out and picked up the handwritten note. His gaze scanned the lines in less than three seconds. A muscle twitched along his jawline, the only sign of the cold fury running beneath his calm exterior.
"Marcus Vance," Dante said quietly, his voice like grinding stones. "He likes grand gestures. He always has."
Before I could reach out to stop him, Dante pulled a heavy metal Zippo lighter from his pocket with his left hand. With a flick of his thumb, a sharp blue flame snapped to life. He held the corner of the notebook paper to the fire until the edges curled black, then dropped the burning sheet into the steel basin of the utility sink, watching it turn to gray ash under the running tap he didn't bother to turn on.
"You should have given this to Vic at the gate," Dante said, his eyes shifting from the sink back to me. His tone wasn't angry, but it carried an absolute, crushing weight. "Instead of bringing it down here to panic over alone."
"It's Leo's," I whispered, the words tasting like copper in my mouth. "They have him, Dante. The note said—"
"The note said what Vance wanted you to read to keep you off balance," Dante interrupted, stepping closer until I could smell the faint scent of cedar and gun oil on his shirt. He reached out, his large hand surprisingly steady as he picked up the cracked silver pocket watch and slid it into his own shirt pocket. "Vance operates out of the river warehouses north of the turnpike. He thinks distance buys him leverage. He's wrong."
He turned toward the heavy door, pausing with his hand on the brass knob. He didn't look back, but his voice echoed sharply in the small, tiled room.
"Vic," Dante called out into the empty corridor.
A heavy pair of boots approached instantly from the hallway. Vic appeared in the doorway behind him, his face set in stone.
"Boss?"
"Pull two units off the East Gate perimeter," Dante instructed, his voice dropping into the register of a man giving final orders before a storm. "Sweep every motel, garage, and salvage yard between here and the county line. Find Vance's runner, and bring me the kid. Quietly."
"Understood," Vic said, giving a curt nod before disappearing back up the stairs.
May you like
Dante looked back at me one last time, his gaze lingering on my bruised knuckles before he turned and walked out, leaving the laundry room door swinging slowly on its hinges.
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