Chapter 5: The Room That Was Prepared
Adrian stood on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop and did not move for ten seconds.
Then he called Caruso again.
"Get two men to the Riverside office.
Don't go in.
Watch the entrance and tell me who arrives in the next thirty minutes."
"You're not going?"
"Not yet.
And Caruso — quietly.
Nobody from Lucas's circle."
He walked back to the waterfront and found a bench facing the harbor.
He sat.
He thought.
The anonymous call could be a misdirection — someone trying to keep him away from Vincent while something else was moved or destroyed.
It could be a genuine warning from someone inside the organization who was afraid to be named.
It could be Vincent himself, buying time.
His phone buzzed.
Caruso.
"Three men just entered the Riverside office.
I don't recognize two of them.
The third one is Danny Farro."
Danny Farro worked for the Castellano family out of Queens.
He had no business at the Riverside office.
He had no business anywhere near Adrian's operation.
"Stay on it," Adrian said.
"Nobody moves until I say."
He ended the call and sat with the harbor in front of him, thinking about Vincent Carra.
Vincent, who had vouched for him.
Who had sat at the table and told the other families that Adrian was the right choice.
Who had, in doing so, made himself indispensable — because a man who builds your foundation can also pull it out from under you.
Adrian called a number he rarely used.
It rang once.
"I need a location check on Vincent Carra," he said.
"Where was he three days before the Hargrove shipment moved?"
The man on the other end — a former city clerk who owed Adrian a debt he could never fully repay — said he'd call back in ten minutes.
He called back in seven.
"He was in Delaware," the man said.
"Flew private.
One night.
Came back the next morning."
Delaware.
Where the holding company was registered.
Where the phone number lived before it dissolved.
"Thank you," Adrian said, and ended the call.
He stood up from the bench.
He didn't go to the Riverside office.
He went instead to a building on the east side of the harbor — a property that appeared in no organizational records, that he had purchased under a separate name three years ago for exactly this kind of moment.
A room with a secure line, a locked filing cabinet, and no windows facing the street.
He called Vincent from there.
"I'm running a few minutes behind," Adrian said.
"Go ahead and wait."
"Of course," Vincent said.
*Naturally* was gone this time.
Just smoothness.
Just patience.
"Tell me something while I'm on the way," Adrian said.
"The Hargrove loss.
Did we ever fully close that investigation?"
A pause.
"We determined it was a routing error.
You signed off on it yourself."
"I did.
But I've been looking at the timeline again.
Something doesn't sit right."
"These things happen, Adrian.
The margins on that route were always thin."
"Were they?" Adrian opened the filing cabinet and pulled a folder.
"Because I'm looking at the original contract right now, and the margins were fine.
The loss happened after the route was confirmed."
Silence.
"Vincent."
"I'm here."
"Who knew the route before it moved?"
The silence this time was different.
It had weight.
"I'd have to check my records," Vincent said finally.
"Take your time," Adrian said.
"I'll be there shortly."
He set the phone down without ending the call and listened.
Thirty seconds of silence.
Then the faint sound of Vincent Carra telling someone in a low, urgent voice: *He knows.
Get out now.*
Adrian picked the phone back up.
May you like
"I can hear you, Vincent."
The line went d*ad.
