Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Idon’t know why I’m panicking. After all, I never got a chess piece indicating a bishop was going to be killed next. But Salvatore sneaking off to East Port just doesn’t feel right.
Dominic presses down hard on the gas, accelerating the car as we merge onto the highway.
Pressing Salvatore’s name in my contacts, I call his phone again.
Voicemail.
Fuck.
Swiping to the message, I text Eleanora.
Me: Did Salvatore say why he was going to East Port?
Eleanora: No, Boss. He said it was personal.
“If someone was going to kill him, I would expect it to be in the middle of the night, not at two in the afternoon.” Dominic cuts into the adjacent lane. A horn blares behind us. He flips them off and takes the off-ramp toward the shipping yards.
“The place is currently an abandoned shipyard. It doesn’t matter what time it is, anyone can get murdered and no one would be the wiser.”
“Do we even know if someone wants him dead?” Dominic glances in the rearview mirror. “You didn’t get a chess piece.”
“No,” I reply. “But it doesn’t mean one won’t appear, and his phone being off in the middle of the day is enough for me.”
Dominic nods. “We should’ve brought backup.”
“No. We can’t. I don’t know who to trust anymore. We have to be careful, someone could use this opportunity to try to kill us both.”
“I’d love for them to try.” Dominic snorts.
Glancing out the window, I look at the industrial area.
East Port sits where the river dumps into Lake Calumet, cut off from the rest of the city by freight lines, warehouses, and roads full of potholes.
This is the place where things and people disappear and paperwork gets rewritten.
Where bodies float face down and no one calls it in.
Then at night ghost ships glide into port with all our shit from South America.
The road narrows as we enter the shipyard. Dominic pulls up to the locked gate. Chain-link fencing rises on both sides, topped with razor wire. The guard booth is empty. But there is a keypad bolted to the side with a red camera blinking above it.
Dominic rolls down the window and the scent of salt, rot, and fuel fills the car.
“Put in the code,” I command. “Five-one-five-five-four-nine.”
He leans out the window and punches it in.
Nothing.
He looks at me. “It’s not working.”
“Try again.” My heart hammers in my chest. Could someone have reset the code?
Same result.
My stomach tightens. “Here let me try.”
I unbuckle, climb over the console, crawl over Dominic, and lean out the window. I punch each number slowly, and don’t rush. Pressing the enter button, relief fills me as the lock clicks. A buzzer sounds and the gates open.
It’s then that I realize where I am.
I’m half on top of Dominic, my weight presses into him, and my ass is basically in his face. I scramble back to my seat as heat creeps up my neck.
He doesn’t make a comment. He just looks at me with unreadable eyes and an intense gaze.
“What?” I snap. “Drive.”
The car rolls forward into the parking lot.
Cracked asphalt, grass-lined gaps, and emptiness greet us.
One car sits near the terminal. It’s Salvatore’s. The black polished luxury sedan looks out of place.
Dominic parks beside it and gets out, opening my door before heading to Salvatore’s car.
An aroma of horrid smells hits me full force.
Diesel. Brine. Decaying fish. Death.
Gulls screech as they circle overhead, like they’re afraid to land in this rancid place.
Dominic presses his hand to the hood. “It’s still warm, he couldn’t have been here too long.”
We scan the terminal. No voices. No footsteps. Just the hum of distant machinery and water slapping against steel.
“I don’t like the looks of this.” Dominic pulls his gun from the holster. “Stay behind me.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.” I draw mine from my coat as we move up the steps.
“Cipi, please just do as I say.”
“Fine.” I let him take the lead.
The terminal is a maze of containers and equipment left where it last stopped.
Cranes loom overhead like giants, their long steel arms frozen in mid-motion, and abandoned forklifts cast spidery shadows across the cracked pavement below.
Shipping containers form narrow corridors with no clear line of sight.
Poles, cables, and loading pallets loom over the docks.
Ships sit low in the water like silent ghosts.
I scan the docks, the water, the gaps between containers.
No Salvatore.
My grip tightens on the gun.
Where the hell did he go?
Then something catches my eye. A flicker of white where it doesn’t belong.
I stop. “Dominic.” I whisper.
He’s by my side in an instant, his gun drawn. “What?”
I don’t answer right away and instead step close to the edge of the dock. My heart hammers louder with each footstep.
It sits on top of one of the wood posts near the water. Intricately placed as if to send a message and blend in at the same time.
A chess piece.
My Dad’s chess piece.
The bishop.
It’s tall and slender with a rounded top. A narrow diagonal slit cuts into the head. The smooth, curved body widens slightly at the base as it stands out against the rusted steel and dark water below.
My chest tightens at the sight of the golden rosewood.
“Well, there’s our message,” Dominic mutters. “We’ve got to find Salvatore. Whoever put that piece there is going to kill him.”
Someone shouts.
I snatch the bishop and shove it into my pocket. We bolt to the east side of the dock. As we round the corner, my stomach lurches.
Salvatore stands at the end of the dock, facing the river with his hands raised. A tall figure in black stands behind him with a pistol pressed to the base of Salvatore’s skull.
The waves lap eagerly below, waiting to take him prisoner.
“Sal!” I scream before I can stop myself.
The figure pushes Salvatore away then whirls around and fires a few bullets at us.
Salvatore stumbles forward and jumps off the dock.
“Sal!” I scream.
Dominic yanks me back behind the crate as the bullets hit the steel with a ping.
Another shot follows.
Then another.
I return fire. Dominic shoots from the opposite side.
“Don’t kill him,” I shout. “We need to talk to him first.”
“We might not have a choice in the matter, Cipi,” Dominic fires another shot.
The masked man ducks and takes off down one of the alleys between the shipping crates. Then he turns around and sends off a series of shots at us.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
We dive behind a crate.
The shooter runs across the terminal, weaving between rusted containers like a shadow that can’t be caught.
Dominic gets to his feet and chases him.
I follow close behind.
The pounding of my sneakers echoes on the concrete. My breath burns in my throat.
The man cuts left then right.
He’s fast.
Every few yards he turns around and shoots at us but his aim is sloppy.
“Stop!” Dominic yells.
But the man doesn’t stop.
He leaps over a broken crate and runs down another alley of shipping containers.
As we chase after him, we see he has reached the end where only a cement wall prevents him from escaping. He turns to us, his gun drawn.
“Don’t shoot!” I yell. “We just want to talk to you.”
His gun remains drawn.
“Who are you?” I shout which is probably a dumb question because a masked shooter isn’t going to voluntarily give their name.
His response is a laugh and more bullets shot in our direction. Dominic grabs me and pulls me behind a large container.
Another shot rings out.
Peeking out, my chest constricts as I see our only opportunity for answers stumble forward. Blood seeps through the dark hoodie of the shooter. His knees buckle and he drops his gun as he falls to concrete.
No.
I sprint to the man. Dominic kicks the gun away. Grabbing the man, I roll him over as blood paints the concrete. I rip his mask off.
Pale skin, brown eyes, and the sharp jawline of a young man look back at me.
I don’t know him.
Is this the man behind my assassination?
His lips tremble as blood drips from the corner of his mouth.
“Are you working for the Marconis?” I grip his hoodie tight.
A smirk twists on his lips.
“Cipriani,” he gasps. “Your. Empire. Is. No. More.”
“What are you talking about?”
His eyes glaze over as he utters one final word.
“Checkmate.”