Chapter 3 - The Traitor in the Shadows
By four-thirty in the morning, the atmosphere in the sub-basement of the Black Crown had turned heavy and suffocating.
Three floors below the casino floor, behind a row of abandoned wine cellars, sat a soundproof concrete room illuminated by a single fluorescent bulb hanging from a wire.
Trent Lawson sat tied to a heavy steel chair, his shirt torn, his nose bleeding, weeping hysterically as Vance calmly set a leather case of tools onto a wooden table nearby.
The heavy iron door swung open, and Roman Black walked in. He had changed into a fresh black shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark tattoos of old Italian crests wrapping around his wrists.
"Roman! Please!" Trent sobbed, thrashing against his leather bindings. "I swear to you on my mother's grave! I didn't know they were going to drop the car! They told me they just wanted to place a wiretap in the executive junction box! They paid me fifty thousand dollars!"
Roman didn't look at Trent. He took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it with a gold Zippo, and took a slow, deep drag, letting the blue smoke drift up toward the ceiling.
"Fifty thousand," Roman murmured, his voice flat. "My life was worth fifty grand to you, Trent? After I paid for your daughter's leukemia treatments three years ago?"
Trent choked on a sob, his head dropping forward. "They... they said they would kill her if I didn't help them, Roman! You don't know who they are!"
Roman stepped forward, leaning down until his face was inches from the manager’s bloody cheek. "Who gave you the money, Trent?"
"It... it was the Moretti family," Trent stammered out, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. "Don Dominic Moretti's lieutenant... Viktor. He met me at the docks two days ago. He said... he said Dominic had bought off half your captains. He said when your elevator went down, Dominic was going to step into the vacuum and claim the west side territory before sunrise."
Roman straightened up slowly, his eyes narrowing into cold slits.
Dominic Moretti. The aging, ruthless Don of the rival East Side family who had been trying to get his hands on the Black Crown’s port distribution contracts for five years.
"Dominic thinks he’s clever," Vance muttered from the corner, leaning against the table with his arms crossed. "He thought a mechanical accident would keep your lieutenants from starting a full-scale war. He could claim it was faulty maintenance."
"Except a six-year-old boy heard his hit squad pre-cutting the wire," Roman said, a dark, dangerous smirk touching his lips. He took another drag of his cigarette and dropped the butt onto the concrete floor, crushing it beneath his shoe.
"What do we do with Trent, Boss?" Vance asked flatly.
"Keep him locked down here until noon," Roman commanded. "If Dominic hears that Trent is alive, he'll know the hit failed. I want Dominic to think the elevator dropped."
"And the boy upstairs?" Vance inquired, his brow furrowing slightly. "Dominic's men saw him in the hallway before you arrived. If Viktor realizes the kid stopped the recall—"
"Viktor won't get within three miles of that child," Roman snapped, his tone instantly shifting into something terrifyingly protective. "Send four extra teams to guard the penthouse level. Have the concierge clear out all public records regarding Meera Collins and her son. As far as the city knows, they don't exist anymore."
Roman turned toward the door, stopping just as his hand touched the heavy steel handle.
"And Vance?"
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"Yeah, Boss?"
"Call the best mechanical engineer on the East Coast," Roman ordered. "I want a custom safety harness built for Elevator Four. If that kid ever comes down to the lobby again, I want him to see that his button worked."
