Chapter 130 - The Crossing at the Strait
The smell of diesel fuel and brine was intoxicating as the green flatbed truck rolled onto the iron ramp of the ferry at Messina.
The ship was a massive, utilitarian roll-on/roll-off vessel named the *Trinacria*, packed with refrigerated citrus trucks, commercial freight haulers, and commuters heading across the three-mile gap toward the toe of the Italian boot.
We remained hidden behind the wall of empty orange crates in the truck’s wooden bed until the heavy iron engines shuddered into life, churning the turbulent waters of the strait into a frothing trail of turquoise and white foam.
Sarah sat beside me, her gray shawl pulled tight around her throat against the sea wind. For the first time in hours, the tension in her jaw seemed to ease, replaced by an expression of profound, quiet sorrow.
"Eleanor spoke of you every day, Martha," Sarah said, her voice barely carrying above the rumble of the ship's diesels. "Even when Arthur took the phone lines out of the house in Camden. Even when he forbade her from writing letters. She kept a small silver locket with your high school portrait inside her prayer book."
A knot formed in my throat that I could not swallow down. "She never said anything. When Arthur forced me out of the trust, she just sat by the window in the parlor and watched me pack my bags."
"Because Arthur told her that if she spoke, he would put Clara and me into an asylum in Normandy," Sarah said simply. "Arthur was not just an embezzler, Martha. He was an extortionist. He operated on fear, and he knew Eleanor would rather be hated by you than see her other child destroyed."
I reached out and placed my hand over hers. Her skin was rough, weathered by years of French coastal winters, but the bone structure beneath was pure Vance. We were two branches of the same shattered trunk, grown across different continents, yet driven by the exact same instinct for survival.
Patrice climbed up into the truck bed from the lower deck, his coat buttoned against the breeze. His face was set in grim lines.
"We have a problem," he said quietly, crouching down beside us.
"Rossi?" I asked, every muscle in my neck tensing.
"Not Rossi. Caleb," Patrice said, handing me the satellite phone. "He’s been trying to reach this frequency for twenty minutes. He sent a priority data ping through the secure channel."
I took the phone and tapped the screen to reveal the incoming text transmission.
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*MOM PLEASE ANSWER. THEY FOUND TORI IN VERMONT. THEY TOOK LEO AND JAMIE FROM THE CABIN. THEY SAY IF THE BASTIA DEEDS ARE NOT HANDED OVER AT THE PALERMO DOCKS BY MIDNIGHT, THEY WILL SINK THE BOYS IN PENOBSCOT BAY. PLEASE MOM. I HAVE NOWHERE ELSE TO GO.*
My blood turned to pure liquid ice. The sunlight sparkling off the waters of the Strait of Messina seemed to drain away, leaving only the cold, gray horror of Maine winter.
