Chapter 3 - Shadows on Atwells Avenue
The rain had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle by Thursday morning when Sadie walked back into the third-floor office. Her coat was damp, and her hair clung in damp wisps around her face, but she sat at her desk with a stack of bank statements she had managed to pull from the archives late the previous evening.
The puzzle pieces were starting to snap together with terrifying clarity.
Vanguard Logistics wasn't just a shell corporation siphon; it was a conduit funneling funds directly into a network of accounts managed by a private investment firm downtown—an investment firm where Camille Ashford’s family held majority advisory seats. Furthermore, the authorization signatures on the wire transfers didn't belong to a junior clerk. They bore the counter-initials of Rocco Santelli.
The door to the private office opened, and Enzo walked out, holding a mug of black coffee. He stopped when he saw her working intensely, her desk covered in color-coded sticky notes and ledger sheets.
"You look like a woman who found a body," Enzo observed, leaning against the doorframe.
Sadie looked up, her expression grave. She didn't smile. She slid two specific ledger pages across the mahogany desk toward him.
"You asked me what I would do if I found something you didn't want to hear," Sadie said quietly. "I found it."
Enzo picked up the papers. His eyes scanned the columns, moving from the Vanguard Logistics payouts to the corresponding investment accounts managed by the Ashford advisory group. The silence in the room grew so heavy that even the hum of the air conditioner seemed to vanish.
For several seconds, Enzo’s face remained an absolute mask of stone. Not a muscle twitched. But the air around him dropped in temperature, sharpening into something dangerous.
"Rocco," Enzo said softly, the name tasting like ash on his tongue.
"And Camille," Sadie added without hesitation. "The wire transfers escalated significantly over the past fourteen months—right around the time your engagement was announced. They aren't just skimming the textile division. They're positioning themselves to take over the liquidation of the legacy assets once you finish closing the books."
Enzo stared at the papers for a long moment longer. Then, slowly, he lowered them to the desk. He didn't look angry; he looked profoundly, heavily betrayed—the exhaustion of a man realizing that the foundation he had trusted was built on rotting timber.
Before Enzo could speak, a sharp knock echoed at the door, and Frank Calder pushed his way inside without waiting for permission.
"Boss," Frank said, his eyes darting toward Sadie before locking onto Enzo. "We have a situation at the harbor warehouse. The delivery trucks scheduled for this morning were intercepted. Not by the authorities. By men carrying Santelli insignia."
Enzo stood up, his height filling the room with an authoritative, lethal presence. "Call the cars."
"Wait," Sadie said, standing up from her desk.
Enzo looked back at her. "You are safe here, Sadie. Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone until I return."
"I'm not hiding," Sadie said, her voice ringing with a sudden, fierce clarity that surprised even her. "You need someone who understands those numbers to verify what they've been moving through those warehouses before Rocco realizes we've flagged the accounts. If you go down there blind, you'll walk right into a legal trap they've been setting for months."
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Enzo studied her for three long seconds. Then a faint, grim ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"Grab your coat," he said. "We're going to the docks."
