Chapter 6 - THE SOUTH BOSTON SHIPMENT
The black Mercedes SUV tore through the wet, slick streets of South Boston at eighty miles an hour, tires hissing against the asphalt as Roman navigated the labyrinth of industrial warehouses near the harbor.
In the back seat, my heart raced like a trapped engine. Thirty minutes ago, I was eating dessert in a Beacon Hill mansion; now, I was hurtling toward a cartel-run shipping yard with a billionaire crime lord and a tablet displaying thermal heat signatures of armed guards.
"Listen to me carefully," Roman said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead while his fingers tapped rapidly against the steering wheel. "The warehouse is divided into two sections. The front office handles nominal customs paperwork for exotic pet imports. The back pier is where the real operation happens—containers, transit logs, and illegal cargo."
"And what am I supposed to do?" I asked, clutching the edges of my seatbelt. "Walk up and ask to adopt a contraband parrot?"
"You're going to walk in as a state agricultural and pet-welfare inspector," Roman said calmly, tossing a laminated identification badge onto my lap. "Julian had this printed up twenty minutes ago. Your cover story is that we received an anonymous tip regarding unlicensed exotic animal containment in yard fourteen."
I picked up the badge. My face stared back at me beneath official-looking state seals. "And if they check my credentials?"
"They won't have time to check anything," Roman replied darkly, pulling the SUV into the shadows behind a towering stack of rusted shipping containers. "Because the moment you walk through that front door, my tactical units will cut the main power grid to the yard."
"That's insane! If they have guards inside—"
"My men will neutralize the perimeter before anyone can reach a weapon," Roman interrupted, turning his head to look directly into my eyes. His gaze was fierce, unyielding, and terrifyingly confident. "You just need to get to the main terminal computer on the second-floor office and download the digital manifest logs. That file contains the names of every corrupt official and syndicate buyer in New England."
I swallowed hard, looking out the tinted window at the sprawling, fog-shrouded expanse of yard fourteen. Floodlights hummed overhead, casting eerie, distorted shadows across endless rows of towering metal containers.
"And if I say no?" I asked quietly.
"You can stay in the car," Roman said without hesitation. "And I will walk in alone."
I looked at him—this ruthless billionaire who had a soft spot for a traumatized Cane Corso, who lived in a gilded cage of enemies and threats, and who was willing to risk everything tonight to rip the cancer out of his own empire.
I picked up the badge, clipped it onto my jacket collar, and reached for the door handle.
"If I download your files and get us both killed," I muttered, "I'm going to haunt you forever."
A faint, genuine smile touched Roman’s lips—the first real smile I had ever seen on his face. "Deal."
We slipped out of the vehicle into the damp, freezing harbor air. The fog rolled in thick off the Atlantic, swallowing the distant lights of the city skyline.
May you like
"Go," Roman whispered.
I took a deep breath, adjusted my posture, and started walking alone across the asphalt toward the glaring neon sign of the South Boston import office, stepping straight into the lion's den.
