12. Lorenzo
LORENZO
The ice in the bucket has melted.
Water gathers beneath the silver rim and spreads across the side table, close to the scotch decanter Hugo has not touched. Rain hits the office windows hard enough to blur the security lights along the fence into red and white streaks.
Hugo stands by the door with his briefcase in one hand.
He has that familiar expression on his face, the one where he evaluates exactly how much his time is worth versus the danger of staying in this room.
He has been ready to leave for ten minutes.
“There is one more detail,” he says.
I keep my eyes on the monitors. “Then stop standing there with it.”
His mouth tightens. “Francesco Ricardo.”
On screen four, the lower processing floor moves in grey rows and stainless steel. Women at the tables. Guards at the walls. Crates being sealed.
Victoria is not on the screen yet.
I wait.
Hugo steps off the edge of the rug. “The Palermo Internal Revenue Registry records came back. His father’s side is what we expected. Dock money. Produce companies. Old shipping accounts. Nothing clean, but nothing surprising.”
“And the mother?”
“That is where it turns.”
I look at him.
He takes a folded note from his inner pocket. “Volkova. Born in St. Petersburg. Moved to London in ninety-eight. Married Ricardo senior in two thousand two.”
The room goes quiet except for the rain.
Hugo lowers the paper. “She is blood-related to the current head of the Volkov syndicate.”
My fingers tighten once on the armrest.
“A cousin?” I ask.
“Direct.”
“A blood tie.”
“A heavy one,” Hugo nods.
I sit back.
Francesco has always had more confidence than his books justified. Now I know why.
Hugo watches my face and says nothing.
“Say the rest,” I tell him.
“The engagement was not only about Victoria’s rail yards,” he says. “If Francesco marries her, he gets the southern routes. His mother’s family gives him access through the eastern ports. Together, they bypass our clearing houses.”
“They cut us out.”
“They try.”
I reach for the glass on my desk but do not drink.
Hugo continues. “The Volkovs would not put their name near a failing family without a return. Francesco needs Victoria. They need her inheritance. The old man would have kept the Russians out of Cicero. Her father dying when he did cleared the way.”
“Convenient.”
“Yes.”
“Find the notary who certified the mother’s marriage contract.”
Hugo nods once.
“If there is a loan against Ricardo’s property from any Russian bank, I want the account numbers. If there is a second contract, I want the signatures. If money crossed through London, Zurich, Malta, or Cyprus, I want the route.”
Hugo closes the briefcase halfway. “All of it?”
I look back to the monitor. “Every line.”
A light flashes on the console.
I press the speaker.
Mateo’s voice comes through, with rain and radio static in the background. “Don.”
“Tell me.”
“The trucks came back from Cicero. We stopped three diesel tankers before they reached the main road.”
“Damage?”
“No bodies. No police. The driver’s watch we planted did the work. Ricardo’s men think their own accountants leaked the schedule.”
Hugo exhales through his nose.
I keep still. “And Francesco?”
“Moving freight into hidden bays. Fast. Too fast. They are using local drivers who do not know what they are carrying.”
“He has nowhere to put that volume.”
“No. Not while we hold the public warehouse logs.”
“Good.”
Mateo pauses. “His captain was seen at Clark Street twenty minutes ago. He gathered six drivers and two of his street boys. Francesco is losing one hundred and thirty thousand dollars every twelve hours those containers sit.”
“Then he will stop thinking and start reaching.”
“You mean they will attempt something reckless?” Matteo asks.
My eyes move to screen four.
Victoria enters the frame.
She walks toward the rear exit of the lower floor, chin lifted, badge clipped to that ugly grey uniform. Her sleeves are too long. The wool hangs badly on her body. Whoever dressed her wanted her hidden.
It failed.
She does not move with the tired rhythm of the other workers. She is pale, yes. Angry, certainly. But not broken.
That irritates me.
It should not.
“Don?” Mateo says.
I press my thumb against the edge of the console.
“Expect them to act out of panic. A man watching his money disappear looks for the nearest exit, not the smartest one.”
I stay silent for a moment.
“Francesco will want a bargaining chip. Tighten the northern gate. Rotate the men every hour. No repeated posts. No driver leaves without a second check.”
“Understood.”
“If anyone asks after the girl, I hear it before the question finishes leaving his mouth.”
“Yes, Don.”
The line cuts.
Hugo remains near the door.
He has heard enough to know the board has shifted.
“The family is still telling the neighbourhood she was kidnapped,” he says. “Francesco claims she is recovering in a clinic out of town.”
“Let him talk.”
“Nobody is looking here yet.”
“They will.”
“Go.”
Hugo closes his briefcase. “I will send the registry files to your private server.”
“No.”
He pauses.
“Bring them by hand.”
A brief nod. “Of course.”
He leaves.
The door clicks shut behind him.
For a few seconds, I do nothing.
The monitors give the office a green cast. Rain crawls down the windows. Somewhere below, the house breathes through vents, pipes, steel corridors, and locked rooms.
On screen four, Victoria reaches the lift.
She presses the button and waits with both hands at her sides. A guard says something to her. She turns her head.
The guard smiles.
Not much.
Enough.
I lean forward.
The smile dies before Victoria answers him.
The lift opens. She steps inside.
The doors close.
I should turn back to the manifests.
There are three shipments held outside Cicero, two warehouses to rotate, a Russian connection to confirm, and a man across town bleeding money with my name on the wound.
The girl is a contract problem.
A signature.
A legal hinge.
Three leases and a dead father’s routes.
That is all.
I stand.
My chair hits the cabinet behind me.
The sound cuts through the office.
There is no reason to go downstairs.
The lower levels are part of Mateo’s detail.
I pick up my coat.
The holster settles against my ribs when I pull the wool over my shoulders. I take the keycard from the drawer and close it without a sound.
At the door, I stop.
On the monitor, the lift carrying Victoria descends out of view.
I look at the blank screen for one second too long.
Then I leave the office.
The corridor outside is empty. Two guards straighten when they see me.
“Don.”
I pass them without slowing. “No one enters my office.”
“Yes, Don.”
The main staircase is to my left.
I take the southern passage.
It runs narrower than the public corridors, with old brick on one side and service pipes along the other. The house is quieter here. Less marble. Fewer portraits. More locks.
Halfway down, Marco steps out from a side hall, phone in hand.
He stops when he sees my coat. “You’re going below?”
“No.”
His eyes drop to the keycard in my hand.
“Do you need men?”
“No.”
“Her floor is secure.”
“I know.”
He waits.
I give him nothing.
Finally, he says, “The guard outside Processing House B spoke to her.”
“I saw.”
“He asked whether she needed help finding the lift. She did well today.”
I walk forward and say nothing.
Marco falls into step half a pace behind me. “And the girl?”
I stop.
He stops too.
“Her name,” I say, “is Victoria.”
A beat passes.
“Yes, Don.”
I continue toward the lift.
Marco does not follow.
The southern lift opens when I scan the card. Inside, the light is pale and cold. I press the button for the residential level and stand with my hands at my sides while the doors seal.
The ride down is quiet.
In the steel reflection, I see a man leaving a decision room for a woman he has already decided has no personal value.
I almost laugh.
The lift stops.
The doors open to the lower residential corridor, and the air smells of damp brick.
Room 207 sits at the end of the corridor, past the supply storage. The hallway is empty, a single bulb casting a dull light against the whitewashed walls.
One guard stands outside.
He straightens fast. “Don.”
“Leave.”
He does not ask where.
He walks.
I wait until his footsteps fade.
Behind the door, I hear a ceramic pitcher scraping against the washbasin. A brief silence follows, then the floorboards creak as she moves closer.
She is inside.
Awake.
I should knock.
The thought comes and goes.
This is my estate. My floor. My lock. My key.
Still, my hand pauses with the card near the reader.
That pause angers me more than it should.
I scan the card.
The lock opens.
Before I push the door, I hear movement inside. Bare feet on wood. A drawer closing. Then her voice, low and wary.
“Who is there?”
My hand remains on the handle.
I could answer.
I do not.
I open the door and step inside.