Chapter 4 - The Tears Behind the Lock
By 2:00 AM, the estate was silent, save for the hum of the central security grid.
In the private underground command center beneath the garage, Dante had set up four high-definition monitors tracking the audio frequency bouncing off the bug behind the painting in Aleandro’s office.
Aleandro stood behind Dante, wearing a simple black tactical shirt and dark trousers. Isabella sat in a leather chair beside him, her hand wrapped tightly in his.
“The blackmailer’s receiver just pinged,” Dante reported, tapping his headset. “They’re tuned into the frequency right now. They think the office is empty.”
“Good,” Aleandro said. He looked down at Isabella. “Are you ready for this?”
She took a deep breath, wiping the last traces of tears from her eyes, and nodded firmly. “Tell me what to do.”
Aleandro leaned down to a microphone connected directly to a secondary transmitter inside his study upstairs.
“Dante, activate the prerecorded background tracks,” Aleandro instructed.
A subtle ambient noise began playing over the feed—the sound of low rain outside the office window, followed by heavy footsteps crossing the hardwood floor.
Then, using a sophisticated voice modulator tuned to Aleandro’s specific vocal pitch and cadence, Dante hit play on a series of scripted dialogue lines.
Through the listening device, the blackmailer heard what sounded like a heated, private argument between Aleandro and his chief of security, Marco.
“I don’t care about the risk, Marco,” the modulated voice of Aleandro echoed through the bug. “The weapons shipment arriving at Pier 42 tomorrow night at midnight is worth forty million dollars. If the Vance Syndicate gets wind of it, we lose the entire waterfront.”
“Boss, it’s too dangerous,” Marco’s prerecorded voice replied over the feed. “We don’t have enough men to secure the northern crane line.”
“Then move the secondary detail from the Long Island safehouse,” fake-Aleandro ordered firmly. “Clear out the security team guarding the east perimeter in Queens. I want every gun we have at Pier 42 by eleven p.m.”
In the command center, Dante watched the signal graph on his screen.
“They bit,” Dante whispered, pointing at a sudden spike in the data stream. “The receiver just recorded the file and transmitted it directly to an IP address in Brooklyn.”
“Trace it,” Aleandro ordered instantly.
“Already on it,” Dante said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “The signal is bouncing off a relay tower near the Gowanus Canal… stopping at a commercial building on 4th Street. It’s an old cold-storage facility owned by a shell company.”
Isabella stood up, her chest heaving as she stared at the blue dot flashing on the digital map of Brooklyn. “Is Clara there?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Aleandro said, turning to Marco, who had just stepped into the command room holding a heavy tactical case.
“The strike team is assembled, boss,” Marco said, unzipping the case to reveal six suppressed submachine guns and tactical body armor. “Twelve men. Off-the-books. No radios connected to the main house.”
Aleandro picked up a tactical vest, strapping it tightly across his chest. He reached into his drawer, pulled out his customized silver pistol, and racked the slide with a clean, lethal click.
May you like
He turned to Isabella, taking her face in his hands and pressing a deep, firm kiss against her lips.
“Stay here with Dante,” Aleandro commanded softly. “When I come back, I’m bringing your niece with me.”
