Chapter 2 - The Shadow over 5th StreetThe Castiglione compound in South Boston was a fortress of brick, wrought iron, and bulletproof glass.
Inside the primary estate office, Tommy Rossi was pacing frantically across the floor, clutching a glass of scotch like a lifeline. He looked up in a panic as the heavy oak doors swung open and Leo walked in, tossing his suit jacket over the back of a leather armchair.
“Leo! Thank God!” Tommy gasped, rushing over. “How was it? Did she ask weird questions? Did she look at your phone? Is she working for the Moretti family? Tell me she isn't a hitwoman!”
Leo walked over to the side bar, poured himself two fingers of neat bourbon, and drank it down in a single swallow. The burn in his throat was clean.
“She isn't a hitwoman, Tommy,” Leo said, setting the glass down with a heavy thud. “She’s an interior designer’s assistant who spends four thousand dollars a month on pilates and thinks a crisis is running out of organic almond milk.”
Tommy let out a massive, wheezing breath of relief, sinking into the armchair. “Oh, thank God. Thank God. I thought Moretti was setting me up.”
“You’re an idiot, Tommy,” Leo said coldly, walking over to the window that looked out over the rainy courtyard. “You made me waste two hours of my life playing bodyguard for a date you were too cowardly to attend.”
“Hey! I saved your life three years ago!” Tommy protested defensively, pointing a finger. “A burning sedan, remember? You owed me!”
“The debt is clear,” Leo said, turning his head slowly. His dark eyes locked onto Tommy with such lethal force that the younger man swallowed hard and lowered his hand. “Don't ever ask me to play dress-up again.”
Leo turned back to the window, watching the rain streak down the thick glass. His mind didn't stay on the estate, nor on the impending territorial dispute with the Moretti syndicate over the Brooklyn shipping docks.
His mind kept drifting back to the service corridor of L’Aureole.
He remembered the smell of industrial lemon bleach, the cracked knuckles, and the sharp, defiant gaze of the woman in the dark-blue polyester uniform. He remembered the zip of her pocket as she hid the three hundred dollars.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed a speed-dial button.
“Boss?” a voice answered on the second ring—Franco, his chief of intelligence.
“L’Aureole restaurant on 4th Street,” Leo commanded flatly. “The night-shift cleaning crew. Find out who the woman with the brown hair and green eyes is. I want her full file on my desk by morning.”
“Understood, Boss. Anything specific you’re looking for?”
“Everything,” Leo said, hanging up.
Eight hours later, as dawn broke gray over the city, a single manila folder sat on Leo’s desk.
Leo opened it, his eyes scanning the pages.
Name: Caris Elena Torres.
Age: 24.
Address: 412 East 5th Street, Apartment 3B.
Employment: L’Aureole (Night Shift Janitorial), Saint Jude’s Commercial Laundry (Day Shift).
Dependents: Mateo Torres (Brother, Age 10).
Notes: Father deceased (former dock worker). Mother abandoned family four years ago. Subject holds two jobs to pay medical bills for brother’s severe respiratory illness. Current debt obligations: $14,000 to local predatory lender, Sal Moretti.
Leo’s grip tightened on the edge of the paper, crumpling the border.
Sal Moretti.
May you like
The Moretti family’s local loan shark—a ruthless, greasy violent enforcer who targeted desperate working-class families in the neighborhood, squeezing them until they bled.
Leo slammed the folder shut, his jaw locked so hard the muscle twitched in his cheek. Caris wasn't just struggling to survive; she was swimming in the same shark tank he controlled, completely unaware that the man who had given her three hundred dollars in a hallway held the power to destroy the men hunting her.
