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CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE UNSEALED SHAFT

Penulis: Rancy pen
last update Tanggal publikasi: 2026-10-17 12:59:56

By seven-thirty on Monday morning, the cold over Manhattan had sharpened into a biting wind that whipped off the East River.

I stood in the alleyway on Wall Street, the heavy brass key turning smoothly in the antique iron gate. Shadowed by the towering granite facades of surrounding banking houses, the alley was quiet. I pushed through the gate, descended the steep stone steps, and reached the black security hatch.

I tapped the new passcode into the digital keypad that Marco had sent to my encr
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    CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: THE EXILEFederal agents swarmed the sub-vault of the De Luca townhouse like dark shadows against the harsh fluorescent lights.Arthur Vance had already been loaded into an armored transport van out front, but the air inside the climate-controlled archive still smelled of scorched wire, ozone, and shattered glass. Evidence techs in blue rubber gloves were cataloging the contents of the brass safety box, bagging the yellowed 2016 domestic ledgers, and photographing the bullet impact where Arthur’s silver revolver had shattered the framed photograph of Isabella.Alessandro stood by the glass cutting table, his phone pressed tightly to his ear, his long frame radiating an iron, terrifying focus."Lock down the perimeter at East 71st," he commanded into the speaker, his baritone cold and flat. "I want two secondary units sweeping the block for unlisted vehicles, and move Marco’s team to the rear courtyard. If Aldo De Luca so much as breathes on this block, I want to kn

  • The Man My Bestfriend Call Dad   CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: THE ARCHIVE OF GHOSTS

    The rain hit the windshield of the armored sedan like thrown gravel as Alessandro tore up the FDR Drive, ignoring red lights and speed limits alike.Beside him, Marco was on the encrypted frequency with the townhouse detail, his knuckles white against the radio housing."They aren't answering, boss," Marco said, his voice flat with rising tension. "The outer gate detail on 71st Street isn't picking up. Neither is the interior foyer post."Alessandro didn't speak. His dark eyes were locked on the slick pavement ahead, his jaw clamped so tight a muscle pulsed violently in his cheek. He drove with a lethal, terrifying focus, taking the exit ramp onto 68th Street with the tires screeching against the wet asphalt.In the backseat, I held my compact 9mm in my lap, my thumb resting over the thumb safety. The fear that had gripped me in the Catskills forest was nothing compared to the ice flooding my veins now.Sofia was inside that house alone. Sofia, who had spent the entire week watching h

  • The Man My Bestfriend Call Dad   CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: THE MOLE HUNT

    Rain rattled against the high industrial windows of the DUMBO loft, but inside, the air was still and electric with purpose.A large blueprint of Lower Manhattan was spread flat across the marble island. Alessandro stood on one side, his hands braced on the edge, while Marco pinned down the corners with three loaded magazines. Sofia sat on a barstool near the end, her eyes red-rimmed but fixed on the paper."Only three senior agents on the federal task force had top-level clearance for our departure logs at the Carlyle," Marco said, his voice dropping into a low, clinical register. "Agent Vasquez, Agent Cole, and Assistant Special Agent in Charge Brennan. One of them took Moretti’s money ten years ago, and one of them texted your private number an hour ago.""We can't take this to the U.S. Attorney," I said, leaning over the blueprint beside Alessandro. My shoulder brushed his arm, and though neither of us moved away, the quiet heat between us anchored the room. "If the mole realizes

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    The armored sedan crossed the Manhattan Bridge, the tires humming against the steel deck while rain streaked the glass in gray diagonals.Behind us, Midtown had vanished into low-hanging clouds. In front of us, the industrial brick warehouses of DUMBO rose out of the mist along the Brooklyn waterfront.Alessandro drove in total silence, his jaw set, his dark eyes continually scanning the side mirrors. In the backseat, Sofia sat wrapped in a heavy dark coat, staring blankly out the window. She hadn't spoken since we slipped through the Carlyle's rear service corridor, her stillness heavy with exhaustion and unspoken shock.We pulled into the subterranean garage of a converted timber-and-brick loft building on Water Street. Alessandro killed the engine, unlocked the doors, and guided Sofia directly into a private elevator that keyed straight to the top floor.The doors slid open into a wide, open-concept loft. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Manhattan Bridge, its massive steel girde

  • The Man My Bestfriend Call Dad   CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THE CARLYLE

    The glass and concrete spires of Midtown Manhattan rushed upward through the gray morning mist like a jagged wall of iron.From the cabin of the black Augusta helicopter, the city looked vast, cold, and entirely unbothered by the violence closing in around us. Below, the yellow ribbons of morning taxis crawled along East 76th Street toward Madison Avenue.Marco adjusted his radio headset, leaning back from the cockpit door to turn toward us. "The residential annex at 76th Street has a low-profile maintenance helipad. The rooftop access door is unlocked—my detail secured the service stairwell five minutes ago. Once we land, we have an eight-minute window before Moretti’s ground scouts realize we didn't use the Madison Avenue entrance."Beside me, Alessandro checked the magazine on his semi-automatic pistol, his long fingers working with a smooth, lethal efficiency. He slammed the clip back into the grip with a dull metallic click, racked the slide to chamber a round, and engaged the th

  • The Man My Bestfriend Call Dad   CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: THE HUNT

    Cold morning air burned my lungs like broken glass.We sprinted through the dense Catskills forest, pine needles and wet fallen leaves slipping beneath my leather boots. Low-hanging hemlock branches whipped at my face, leaving stinging scratches across my skin, while exposed granite roots threatened to break my ankles with every stride. In my right hand, the compact 9mm felt impossibly heavy, its metal frame ice-cold against my trembling fingers.Behind us, the crunch of heavy boots on gravel echoed through the trees, followed by harsh, shouting voices.Crack.A gunshot shattered the forest quiet. A bullet sheared through the bark of a birch tree three feet to my left, showering my hair with fresh white splinters.Alessandro didn't let go of my left hand. His grip was an iron anchor, pulling me forward through the dense brush with fluid, practiced speed. He knew these woods—every ridge, every natural trench, every limestone drop. He wasn't just running for his own survival; he was car

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