Chapter 5 - The Ledger in the Jeweler’s BenchThe convoy of four black armored Maybachs departed the Long Island compound at 2:45 AM, cutting through the driving rain along the Long Island Expressway.
Inside the master vehicle, the air was warm, quiet, and smelling of aged leather and cedar smoke.
I sat in the plush passenger seat, wearing an oversized wool coat Cassian had draped over my shoulders, holding the walnut music box securely on my lap.
Opposite us sat Albert Vance, his worn leather satchel resting between his boots, his hands resting comfortably on his knees.
Cassian sat beside me, reviewing printed maritime manifests under the soft amber dome light.
“Look at these container codes, Albert,” Cassian said, pointing to a column of encrypted logistics numbers on the top page. “The shipping line that carried the C-4 explosives into Montauk twenty years ago was registered to a shell company called Nightingale Maritime.”
Albert let out a low, bitter chuckle.
“Charles Sterling was always arrogant, Cassian. He named the smuggling front after your mother’s music box to mock her memory.”
“And Dimitri signed the customs clearance vouchers,” Cassian added, his jaw hardening into granite. “For twenty years, Dimitri collected forty percent of the profits from that very shipping line, using our family’s legitimate transport permits to shield Sterling’s contraband from federal inspection.”
I looked down at the walnut box, running my fingers over the silver bird on the lid.
“How did Donna Elena discover the plot, Albert?” I asked softly.
Albert looked at me, his weathered eyes softening with deep, paternal warmth.
“Donna Elena was an artist, Nora,” the old man explained gently. “She designed all the custom jewelry for the Five Families in the nineties. When Charles Sterling brought her an antique platinum locket to repair in October 2004, she opened the double backplate and found an encrypted micro-film negative containing the offshore account routing numbers for the Montauk dock lease. She realized her husband’s closest allies were selling our shipping lanes to the Canadian cartels.”
Cassian’s fingers tightened on the paper until the corners crumpled.
“She tried to warn my father,” Cassian whispered, his voice vibrating with an ancient, terrible sorrow. “But my father was stubborn. He told her she was worrying over nothing. He told her Dimitri was his brother in blood.”
He looked out the tinted window as the Manhattan skyline emerged through the rain clouds—a jagged forest of steel and glass glittering like cold diamonds against the dark sky.
“My father died of a heart attack six years later,” Cassian continued softly, “never knowing that the man pouring his morning whiskey was the man who ordered the fuel line wired on his wife’s yacht.”
He turned his gaze onto me, his gray eyes holding mine with an unyielding, protective gravity.
“When we reach the Drake Hotel, Nora, you stay inside the vehicle with Albert and two guards. This is not a conversation for a civilian.”
“I’m not afraid, Cassian,” I replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I spent eight months watching Lorelei threaten my mother. I want to see the men who gave her that power answer for what they’ve done.”
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A rare, breathtaking smile curved the corners of Cassian Vance’s lips.
“You have my mother’s spine, Nora,” he murmured, his thumb gently brushing across my knuckles. “Very well. You walk at my side.”
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