Chapter 4 - The rusted throne
The abandoned shipping warehouse at the edge of the city docks smelled of salt water, old iron, and decay. The cinematic lighting here was harsh and unforgiving, provided by a single industrial spotlight hanging from the high metal rafters. The light carved deep, dramatic shadows into the concrete floor.
Vivienne sat in a heavy wooden chair in the dead center of the spotlight. Her expensive black traveling suit was rumpled, her flawless blonde hair undone. She was not tied up, but she knew better than to run. Standing in the shadows at the perimeter of the light were four of Frank’s men, silent, broad-shouldered, and completely immovable.
Frank sat on a rusted metal barrel ten feet away, leaning forward on his cane. He looked incredibly comfortable in the grim surroundings, a king returned to his true, brutal throne.
You have absolutely no idea the lines you are crossing, DeLuca, Vivienne said, trying to force her voice to sound arrogant and commanding. The people who bought those children are the most powerful families in America. Senators. Tech billionaires. Judges. If you expose this, they will unite and crush you. They will erase you from history.
Frank did not blink. You think I care about history? I care about a baby boy born on November the fourth, twelve years ago.
Vivienne’s breath hitched. She suddenly understood. The stoic, unreadable expression on her face cracked. The pieces fell together perfectly in her calculating mind. Isabella DeLuca. The car crash. The mysterious, undocumented newborn she had brokered for an astronomical fee.
She let out a dry, manic laugh that echoed off the metal walls. Oh my god. The baby was yours. Isabella was your daughter.
Frank’s grip on his cane tightened, the wood creaking loudly in the quiet warehouse. Give me the name of the family, Vivienne.
Vivienne’s fear suddenly vanished, replaced by a twisted, venomous sense of power. She leaned back in her chair, a cruel smile spreading across her rosy lips. She finally had leverage.
If I tell you, I’m dead, Vivienne said, her American accent dripping with absolute malice. The family that took him paid ten million dollars to ensure his bloodline remained a secret. They wanted a child with aggressive genetics, someone they could mold into a ruthless CEO for their empire. He is twelve years old now, Frank. He goes to the best schools. He wears custom suits. He doesn't know what a mafia boss is. And he certainly doesn't know his mother bled to death on a highway.
Frank stood up. He moved with a terrifying, slow deliberation, stepping fully into the harsh spotlight. He walked until he was standing directly over her, his massive frame blocking out the light.
You are a broker, Frank said softly. You sell things. So, let’s make a transaction. Give me the name, and I will let you walk out of this warehouse alive. Refuse, and you will disappear tonight.
Vivienne looked up at him, her heart pounding, but her arrogance winning the internal war. You won't kill me. If I die, the encryption on the master server resets. The final adoption file automatically deletes. You will never find him. You need me alive to access the Blackwood Point mainframe.
Frank stared down at her for a long, heavy moment. He analyzed her eyes, her breathing, the subtle twitch in her jaw. He knew a bluff when he saw one. But he also knew she was a master manipulator. He couldn't risk the file.
Frank turned away and walked back into the shadows. Put her in the holding room, he ordered Marco. Take her phone. Take her jewelry. Let her sit in the dark until she decides her life is worth more than her secrets.
As Marco grabbed Vivienne’s arm to pull her up, she sneered toward the shadows where Frank stood. You’re too late anyway, old man. He isn't a DeLuca anymore. He’s exactly what I designed him to be.
They dragged Vivienne out of the warehouse, her expensive heels dragging against the dirty concrete.
Frank stood alone in the quiet building. He pulled a worn, faded photograph from his inner suit pocket. It was a picture of his daughter, Isabella, smiling brightly on her wedding day. Frank rubbed his thumb over her face. He had failed to protect her. He would not fail to protect her son.
His encrypted phone vibrated in his pocket. Frank answered it without looking at the ID.
Mr. DeLuca, a panicked voice said. It was the tech expert back at the estate. We have a massive problem. Vivienne didn't just lock the file. She set a dead man's switch before we brought her in. If she doesn't input a biometric scan into the server by sunrise, the entire database automatically sends the names of the adoptive families to the federal government.
Frank’s blood ran cold. If the FBI got the list, they would raid the families. The children would become wards of the state, thrown into a media circus. The billionaire families would immediately hide the boy or move him out of the country to avoid the scandal. Frank would lose him forever in a sea of red tape and federal investigations.
How much time do we have? Frank demanded, his voice turning to steel.
Four hours, the tech replied. But we need her fingerprint and her retinal scan at the actual server location.
Where is the server?
It’s hidden in the basement of the Blackwood Point private academy. It's a high-security boarding school in the mountains.
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Frank hung up the phone. He looked at his wooden cane, a symbol of his retirement, a symbol of his attempt to be a peaceful man. He gripped the handle tightly. The peaceful man was dead. The mafia king was back.
Load the SUVs, Frank roared, his voice echoing violently through the empty warehouse. We are going to school.
