Chapter 6 - The Architect of Atlantic CityThe storm was beginning to clear, the heavy black clouds breaking apart to reveal pale, freezing stars over the Atlantic horizon.
I walked down the concrete ramp into the floor of Dry Dock 4, my leather shoes crunching over fragments of rusted iron and marine silt. Maya followed me down, her boots splashing through the shallow puddles left by the dewatering pumps.
She stopped beside the open copper cylinder, shining a heavy waterproof flashlight into its dark interior.
“There’s more in here than just the signet ring,” she said, her voice echoing off the damp concrete walls of the basin.
I knelt beside her, shining my own light into the cylinder. Tucked beneath a false bottom lined with oiled canvas was a heavy ledger bound in weathered black calfskin—bearing the personal seal of Don Carmine Moretti.
The missing offshore ledger.
The book containing the unredacted financial records of every political bribe, judicial payoff, and cartel alliance forged along the eastern seaboard from 1985 to 2015.
If Judge Thorne got his hands on this, he wouldn't just seize Pier 14; he could indict half the municipal government and hold the entire New Jersey coastline hostage.
“You knew this was in here, didn't you?” I asked, looking up at her.
Maya looked down at me, the harsh beam of the flashlight reflecting off the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the dark strands of wet hair framing her face.
“I knew the cylinder contained something heavy enough to make Port Director Vance soil his Italian trousers,” she answered honestly. “And I knew that if I handed it directly to the city police, it would end up in Judge Thorne’s private study within ten minutes.”
“So you drained a dry dock at midnight instead.”
“I’m an engineer, Mr. Moretti. I prefer structures that don't collapse under political pressure.”
A rare, involuntary sound escaped my throat—a low, dark chuckle that seemed to surprise even her.
I stood up, towering over her in the damp gloom of the basin, and extended my hand.
“Dante,” I said.
Maya looked at my outstretched palm—calloused from decades of holding reins far heavier than a pen—then slowly placed her hand in mine. Her grip was firm, steady, and entirely devoid of hesitation.
May you like
“Maya,” she replied.
“Come with me, Maya Lin,” I said, turning toward the concrete ramp where my Lincoln idling in the floodlights awaited us. “We have a judge to wake up.”
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