Chapter 4 - The Trojan HorseThe rain had stopped by the following evening, leaving the Philadelphia skyline slick and glittering beneath a bruised purple sky.
Inside the service loading bay of the Caruso Global Logistics tower, the air smelled of exhaust fumes, damp concrete, and espresso.
Emma gripped the handle of a massive industrial flower cart piled high with white lilies and black roses. Her knuckles were white. Her catering uniform—the same black dress and sensible flats from the funeral—felt like a target painted on her back.
Behind her, hidden beneath a tarp of wilting ferns on the lower tier of the cart, sat Aleandro and Marco, both clad in dark tactical gear with suppressed sidearms secured at their sides.
"Approaching sector three," Marco’s voice hissed through the tiny earpiece tucked into Emma’s left ear. "Keep your head down, Emma. Just walk natural."
Natural, Emma thought hysterically. Right. Just a normal Tuesday night smuggling a resurrected crime lord into his own headquarters.
She pushed the heavy metal cart across the loading dock toward the service elevator. Two armed guards wearing corporate security uniforms leaned against the wall, smoking cigarettes and chatting lazily.
"Hey," one of them called out, tossing his cigarette butt into a drain. "Hold up. Deliveries are supposed to be processed through dock B before 6:00 PM."
Emma’s heart slammed against her ribs. She forced herself to take a slow, steady breath, channeling every ounce of theatrical poise she had learned during her college acting classes.
"Mr. Vance’s office gave special clearance," Emma said, keeping her voice level, polite, and slightly bored—the universal tone of a exhausted service worker. "He wanted the arrangements in the executive boardroom before the memorial dinner starts at eight. If I'm late, I lose my bonus."
The guard squinted at her, looking her up and down. He stepped forward, eyeing the towering mass of lilies.
"I didn't see your name on the manifest," the guard grunted, reaching out to lift the corner of the tarp.
Emma’s blood ran cold. If he lifted that tarp, he wouldn't see flowers—he would see Aleandro Caruso staring back at him with a gun.
Before the guard's fingers could graze the green foliage, a sharp, metallic click echoed from behind the cart.
"Is there a problem here, Officer?"
A cold, familiar, velvet-smooth voice cut through the loading bay like a razor blade.
The guard froze. His hand hovered in mid-air. Slowly, agonizingly, he raised his head and looked past Emma toward the dark corner of the service corridor.
Salvatore Vance stepped out from the shadows.
He looked immaculate in a charcoal three-piece suit, his silver-streaked hair combed back, a smug, triumphant smile playing on his lips. But the moment his eyes landed on Emma standing behind the flower cart, the smile vanished.
Color drained completely from Salvatore’s face. He looked like he had just seen a ghost.
"You..." Salvatore whispered, his voice trembling. "You're the... the waitress from the estate."
Emma swallowed hard, her mouth tasting like ash.
From beneath the tarp, the canvas rustled with terrifying speed.
Before Salvatore could reach for the weapon holstered beneath his jacket, Aleandro erupted from the cart like a coiled spring. In one fluid, brutal motion, he closed the distance between them, grabbed Salvatore by the lapels of his expensive suit, and slammed him violently against the concrete pillar.
A choked gasp escaped Salvatore’s lips as the wind was knocked out of him.
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Aleandro pressed the cold muzzle of a Beretta directly beneath his brother-in-law’s chin.
"Missed me, Sal?" Aleandro whispered, his voice dripping with lethal amusement.
