Chapter 18 - The doll with glass eyes
The old brewery on 31st Street was an impenetrable fortress built of red brick, reinforced concrete, and iron gates. It had belonged to Vincent's family since the days of Prohibition, featuring hidden underground rooms and reinforced security barriers designed to withstand a siege.
By three in the morning, Vincent had assembled six of his most trusted personal enforcers in the upper loft of the brewery. On the table lay Marco’s journals and the federal indictment papers.
"District Attorney Vance is holding a press conference at nine o’clock tomorrow morning," Vincent told his men, pointing at a map of the downtown federal plaza. "He intends to announce federal warrants for my arrest and the dissolution of our family assets, citing the boat attack this morning as proof of an internal gang war."
"He’s using the legal system to finish what his hit squads couldn't do," Frank growled.
"Exactly," Vincent said. "He wants me in federal custody where the Black Orchard can arrange an accident before I ever see a judge."
Before Vincent could outline his plan, the brewery's intercom buzzed from the ground floor gate.
One of the guards stepped to the monitor, his brow furrowing. "Boss, there’s a courier at the gate. Dressed in standard overnight delivery uniform. He dropped a parcel on the intercom stoop and drove off."
Vincent’s instincts flared immediately. "Nobody touch it. Clear the entrance."
Frank took two men downstairs with tactical shields. Five minutes later, Frank returned, carrying a beautifully wrapped silver box with a white silk ribbon. "We ran a bomb sweep and chemical sniffer. It’s clean. No explosives, no biological agents."
"Who is it addressed to?" Vincent demanded.
Frank hesitated, his expression turning pale. "Mia Delgado."
Alina, who was sitting near the brick fireplace in the corner, sprang to her feet. "Don't open it! Don't let her near it!"
"Frank, set it on the workbench," Vincent ordered, drawing a razor blade from his pocket.
With surgical precision, Vincent sliced the ribbon and peeled back the silver paper. Inside the box, resting on a bed of purple velvet, was an antique porcelain doll. It had delicate painted features, blonde curls, and two brilliant, oversized glass eyes that seemed to stare into the room.
Mia peeked around her mother’s dress, her little nose twitching. "Pretty doll," she murmured.
Vincent didn't touch the toy. Instead, he leaned down, inspecting the doll’s face under the harsh halogen work light.
The right eye was clear glass. But the left eye had a faint, iridescent purple sheen deep within the pupil.
"Bring me the thermal scanner," Vincent commanded.
Frank handed him the handheld device. Vincent aimed the sensor directly at the doll’s face.
The screen flared bright orange.
"It’s not an explosive," Vincent said, his voice dropping into an arctic rage. "It’s an optical transmitter with an active cellular relay. There’s a micro-camera in the left eye. And a microphone."
The realization hit the room like an artillery shell.
"They aren't tracking a signal," Frank gasped. "They’re watching us right now."
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Suddenly, the doll’s tiny ceramic chest emitted a burst of static, followed by the smooth, mocking voice of District Attorney Marcus Vance speaking through a concealed micro-speaker:
*"Good evening, Mr. Moretti. Thank you for inviting us into your charming brewery. You have approximately ninety seconds before my tactical assault team breaches the southern perimeter. Have a pleasant evening."*
