Chapter 4 - Shadows in the BoardroomThe elimination of Julian Vance’s influence in Boston secured the eastern shipping lanes, but the underworld of New York never stayed quiet for long. Power vacuums invited ambition, and ambition bred betrayal—often from the places you least expected.
It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon in mid-November when Marcus Vance—Julian’s younger brother and the head of the Caruso syndicate’s internal security detail—knocked on the frosted glass door of my office at Hartwell Freight.
"Come in, Marcus," I said without looking up from the shipping manifests spread across my desk.
Marcus stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind him. He was a large man, built like a brick wall, with a permanent scowl and hands that had broken more noses than I cared to count. For three years, he had been Roman’s shadow, managing the muscle that kept our warehouses secure.
"Mr. Caruso is tied up with the port authority commissioners downstairs," Marcus said, his voice deep and rumbling. "He asked me to deliver these security audit reports to you directly."
I looked up, narrowing my eyes slightly. Roman never sent Marcus to do administrative errands. Marcus was an enforcer, not a courier.
"Set them on the desk, Marcus," I instructed calmly, keeping my right hand resting casually near the panic button wired directly to the main security desk downstairs.
Marcus walked forward, placing a thick manila folder on the corner of the mahogany desk. But instead of stepping back, he lingered. His hand hovered near his coat pocket.
"Is there something else?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
"Yeah, actually, Mrs. Caruso," Marcus said, a slow, unpleasant smirk spreading across his lips. "There is. Word around the docks is that you've been wearing the pants a little too comfortably lately. Roman used to be a killer. Now he’s sitting in city hall kissing up to politicians and port commissioners, all because he’s wrapped around your finger."
I leaned back in my leather chair, crossing my arms over my chest. "Are you speaking for yourself, Marcus, or are you reading a script written by someone else?"
"I'm speaking for the men who built this syndicate with blood while your husband was busy playing domestic house with a damaged Mercer," Marcus snarled, his hand flashing into his pocket and pulling out a heavy, silenced Beretta pistol.
The cold black barrel leveled directly at my chest.
My heart didn't race. The adrenaline didn't spike. I had stared down barrels before; I had stared down worse when I was fourteen years old and locked in a dark room with my brother.
"You think killing me solves your problem?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly steady. "You think Roman is going to let you walk out of this building, let alone take over the syndicate?"
"Roman won't have a choice once the police find your body and the forged ledgers I planted in your desk," Marcus replied, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger. "Boston is paying top dollar for a clean transition of power in New York. You're just the loose end that needs cutting."
"You talk too much, Marcus," a voice echoed from the doorway.
Marcus spun around, his eyes widening in sheer horror.
Roman stood leaning against the doorframe, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his silver-gray eyes dead and freezing cold. He wasn't holding a gun, but he didn't need to. Behind him stood four armed capos from the inner circle, their weapons raised and locked squarely on Marcus’s back.
"Mr. Caruso—I can explain—" Marcus stammered, lowering his pistol slightly.
"You don't need to explain anything," Roman interrupted smoothly, walking slowly into the office. "I heard every word from the intercom feed on my desk. You took Boston money, Marcus. You thought because I married a Mercer, I had gone soft."
Roman stepped right up to the barrel of Marcus’s gun, ignoring the threat entirely, staring down his traitorous head of security with the terrifying aura of an apex predator.
"You forgot one fundamental rule about the Caruso family," Roman whispered, his voice slicing through the room. "I didn't marry Evelyn to civilize myself. I married her because she's tougher than any man in this room."
Before Marcus could pull the trigger, Roman moved. He slammed his palm upward against the underside of Marcus’s wrist, sending the Beretta flying toward the ceiling, and drove his fist straight into Marcus’s solar plexus.
Marcus doubled over with a sickening gasp, collapsing hard onto the hardwood floor.
The four capos swarmed forward, pinning Marcus to the ground with their boots and clicking steel handcuffs around his wrists before he could draw a breath.
Roman didn't even look down at him. He walked straight over to my desk, his hands resting on either side of my chair, bending down to check my face.
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"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice softening, the cold mob boss instantly vanishing.
"I told you, Roman," I smiled, reaching up to touch his cheek. "I don't scare easily."
