Chapter 2 - The Inner Sanctum of Terminal 4
The waterfront offices of Perry Logistics occupied the top floor of a converted red-brick warehouse that smelled of salt water, roasted coffee beans, and very old money.
When Neveah stepped out of the private elevator on Monday morning, wearing her only interview suit—a navy blue pencil skirt she had bought secondhand in college—she expected armed guards and checkpoints. Instead, she found an expansive, quiet room with polished oak floors and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Narragansett Bay.
Frank Calder, a broad-shouldered man with a permanent crease between his eyebrows and a scar along his jawline, was waiting for her by the reception desk.
“Ms. Brown,” Frank said, his voice flat and professional. “The boss is finishing a call. Follow me.”
He led her past a row of empty glass-walled offices toward a massive corner suite at the end of the hall. The door was open. Leandro Perry sat behind a sprawling mahogany desk, reviewing a stack of shipping manifests with the absolute, unblinking focus of a chess grandmaster.
He looked up as she walked in. He didn't smile, but the hard line of his mouth softened by fractions.
“You’re twenty minutes early,” Leandro noted, checking an old-fashioned gold pocket watch.
“The bus ran on time,” Neveah said, standing stiffly by the visitor’s chair. She refused to sit down uninvited. “And I didn't have anything better to do since your sister ensured I’m unemployable anywhere else on Federal Hill.”
Leandro set the manifests down. He leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. “Stella is currently grounded at our family estate in Newport with no car, no credit cards, and a mandatory weekly allowance cut down to two hundred dollars. She won't be visiting any restaurants on Atwells Avenue for a very long time.”
Neveah blinked. “You did that?”
“She crossed a line,” Leandro said simply. “And more importantly, she disrupted my business. Now, let’s talk about yours.”
He slid a thick manila folder across the desk. Inside were financial statements, asset valuations, and shipping manifests for Perry Logistics’ European import division.
“My chief financial officer, Marcus Vance, has been running this division for six years,” Leandro said, his voice dropping into a low, confidential register. “According to these books, our profit margins on container imports from Lisbon have dropped twelve percent every quarter for the last two years. Marcus claims it’s inflation, fuel costs, and port congestion.”
Neveah pulled the top statement toward her, sliding her glasses out of her pocket. She didn't look at Leandro; her eyes scanned the columns, tracking row totals against municipal tariffs and fuel surcharges.
Within three minutes, her pencil was moving across the margin.
“He’s lying,” Neveah said quietly.
Leandro’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Explain.”
“Fuel costs didn't spike in Lisbon; they dropped during those quarters. And port congestion doesn't affect container customs fees uniformly across twenty-ton shipments unless someone is altering the weight declarations.” Neveah pointed to a specific ledger line. “Look here. The manifest lists dry goods, but the weight-to-volume ratio matches high-grade steel alloy. Someone is smuggling contraband through your primary shipping lanes—and they’re using legitimate accounting entries to mask the discrepancy.”
Silence stretched across the office. Frank Calder, standing near the door, shifted his weight, his eyes darting toward Leandro.
Leandro stared at Neveah for a long, heavy moment. Then, slowly, a faint, dangerous smile touched the corner of his lips.
“Marcus Vance is my uncle by marriage,” Leandro said softly. “He has been with this family since my father built the docks. If I accuse him of skimming, I need airtight, unassailable proof. Can you get it for me?”
Neveah looked down at the ledger, then back up at the most feared man in Providence. She thought of her unpaid electricity bill, her empty refrigerator, and the red marks still lingering on her wrist.
“Give me forty-eight hours and full access to the digital archives,” Neveah said, her voice steady and clear. “And double my starting salary.”
May you like
Leandro laughed—a short, sharp sound of genuine amusement.
“Done,” he said.
