Chapter 11 - THE FIRE AT THE SHIPYARD
Lorenzo stared at the phone. It rang three times before he picked it up, putting it on speaker.
“Moretti.”
“Lorenzo,” a raspy, ancient voice crackled through the line. It was Don Salvatore, the oldest and most respected member of the Five Elders. “I received word that a package was delivered to your estate today. A wooden box.”
Lorenzo’s eyes flicked to the box on his desk. He kept his voice perfectly level.
“I get many deliveries, Salvatore.”
“Do not play games with me, boy,” Salvatore wheezed. “Your uncle Vincenzo stole a ledger from me twenty-five years ago. It contains information that could destroy everything we have built. Bring me the key, Lorenzo. Or I will finish what Bellamy started with your sister.”
The line went dead.
Lorenzo slammed the phone down, sheer fury radiating from him.
“It was Salvatore,” Lorenzo snarled. “He’s the one who ordered the hit on your father. He’s the one who took Isabella.”
“He wants the ledger,” I said, my mind racing. “If the ledger proves he orchestrated the treason, the rest of the families will strip his power and execute him. That’s why he’s panicking.”
Lorenzo grabbed his gun from the desk drawer. “We have to get to the old shipyard vault before his men do.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said immediately.
He didn't argue. He knew better now.
We drove through the rain-slicked streets of the city, arriving at the abandoned shipyard just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The massive rusted cranes loomed like metal skeletons against the gray sky.
But as we pulled up to warehouse number four, my heart dropped.
Thick, black smoke was billowing from the roof. Orange flames licked at the corrugated metal walls.
“They beat us here!” Lorenzo yelled, slamming the car into park.
We sprinted toward the burning building. The heat was immense, pushing us back.
“The vault is in the basement!” Lorenzo shouted over the roar of the fire. “The flames haven't reached it yet!”
He kicked the side door open. We rushed down a narrow concrete stairwell, coughing as smoke filled the air.
At the bottom stood a heavy steel vault door.
Lorenzo jammed the brass key into the rusted lock. He twisted it with all his strength.
With a groan of metal, the door swung open.
Inside, sitting on a single metal shelf, was a thick, black leather-bound ledger.
I grabbed it just as a massive explosion rocked the floor above us. Dust and debris rained down on our heads.
“We have to go!” Lorenzo yelled, grabbing my hand.
We scrambled back up the stairs. The main floor was a raging inferno. Wooden beams were collapsing, blocking our exit.
“Through the loading dock!” Lorenzo pointed.
We ran toward the back of the warehouse, dodging falling embers. We burst through the loading bay doors, collapsing onto the wet pavement outside, gasping for fresh air.
I clutched the ledger to my chest, my lungs burning.
But as we looked up, the relief vanished.
Five black SUVs were parked in a semi-circle, their headlights blinding us.
A dozen armed men stood with their weapons drawn.
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And standing in the center, leaning on a silver-tipped cane, was Don Salvatore.
“You are a resilient boy, Lorenzo,” Salvatore sneered, holding out his wrinkled hand. “But the game is over. Give me the book.”
