Chapter 3 - The Trap at the DocksWhile Grace cleaned the library, a storm of a different kind was brewing down at the South Boston container yards.
Frank Doyle and four enforcers stood in the shadows of a massive shipping crane, watching a sleek black sedan pull up beside warehouse twelve. Liam Sullivan—a rival syndicate boss attempting to muscle in on Michael’s import routes—stepped out of the vehicle, flanked by two armed thugs.
"Where is the girl?" Sullivan demanded, tossing his cigarette into a puddle. "The plant inside the Kaine estate said Rosa’s daughter was sent in today. Did she get the access codes to the safe?"
A figure stepped out from behind a stack of steel crates. It wasn't Frank. It was Viktor, one of Michael’s most lethal enforcers, holding a suppressed pistol aimed squarely at Sullivan’s chest.
"Mr. Kaine sends his regards," Viktor said softly.
Before Sullivan’s guards could draw their weapons, Frank and his team moved in from the darkness with terrifying, practiced efficiency. The firefight was short, brutal, and completely silent. Within ninety seconds, Sullivan’s men were disarmed and pinned against the cold steel containers, while Sullivan himself was shoved to his knees in the mud.
"Tell Michael—" Sullivan choked out as Frank’s heavy boot pressed into his shoulder.
"Mr. Kaine doesn't want messages," Frank interrupted, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "He wants you to understand that Beacon Hill is closed. Permanently."
Back at the mansion, unaware of the violence unfolding across the city, Grace finished scrubbing the library floor and walked down the grand staircase. As she passed the second-floor landing, she noticed a door left slightly ajar—Michael’s private quarters.
Drawn by a strange, unexplainable curiosity, she pushed it open.
The room was vast, stark, and painfully neat. But on a small oak side table sat an old, scratched cassette player and a single tape labeled Lullabies for Elena.
Grace reached out, her fingers brushing the plastic casing.
"Touching private property is a dangerous hobby in this house, Grace."
Grace jumped, spinning around to find Michael standing in the doorway. He had just returned from the docks; the shoulders of his coat were wet with rain, and a faint smear of dark blood marked his right cuff.
"I—I'm sorry," Grace stammered, backing away until her hips hit the edge of the dresser. "I was just... I heard music was forbidden here. But you have a tape."
May you like
Michael closed the distance between them slowly, stopping just a foot away. He looked down at her with an intensity that made her breath hitch.
"That tape is a ghost," Michael said softly. "Just like everything else in this room."
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