Chapter 9
The heavy thud of the shovels biting into the soil provided a dark, rhythmic soundtrack to the tension in the garden. The bright video colors of the afternoon sun contrasted violently with the grim task at hand. Alessio stood perfectly still, his tailored dark three-piece suit immaculate, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the two massive bodyguards excavate the narrow strip of land beside the greenhouse wall.
"We've hit something, Boss," Domenico announced, wiping a bead of sweat from his fair, rosy forehead. The shovel struck a surface with a dull, heavy thud that sounded distinctly like thick canvas, not stone or roots.
"Clear the dirt away," Alessio commanded, his deep voice a low, terrifying hum. "Pull it out."
Silas and Domenico dropped to their knees, using their gloved hands to rapidly brush away the dark, loose soil. Slowly, the shapes emerged from the earth. They were three heavy, industrial-grade black duffel bags, exactly as twelve-year-old Evelyn had described. The bags were coated in mud, the heavy zippers bulging under the strain of whatever was packed tightly inside.
"Haul them up," Alessio ordered, his cold, piercing eyes locked onto the black canvas.
The two men grunted with effort, gripping the thick nylon handles. They heaved the heavy bags out of the trench, dragging them onto the pristine stone terrace. The bags landed with a heavy, metallic clanking sound, slinging wet mud across the polished floorboards.
Marco Hale groaned loudly from the wreckage of the flower rack. The forty-year-old associate was slowly regaining consciousness. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the stones, his swollen eyes fluttering open. When his blurry vision focused on the three black duffel bags sitting on the terrace, a look of absolute, soul-crushing despair washed over his bruised face.
"No," Marco wheezed, his American accent slurred by his shattered jaw. "You're dead, Alessio... we're all dead."
"Open them," Alessio instructed his men, completely ignoring Marco's pathetic warnings.
Silas grabbed the heavy brass zipper of the first bag. He yanked it violently backward. The canvas parted, revealing the contents hidden within.
A collective gasp ripped through the assembled capos. The men took an involuntary step backward, their hands drifting instinctively toward their holstered weapons.
The bag was completely packed with massive, shrink-wrapped bricks of uncut heroin, stamped with the unmistakable, blood-red insignia of the rival Colombian cartel. It was tens of millions of dollars worth of pure narcotics.
Silas quickly opened the second bag. It was filled to the brim with banded stacks of unmarked, unsequential hundred-dollar bills. Blood money.
Domenico unzipped the third and final bag. It did not contain drugs or cash. Inside lay an arsenal of high-grade, untraceable automatic weapons, suppressed tactical pistols, and a thick, leather-bound ledger book.
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Alessio stepped forward, his polished leather shoes crunching on the spilled dirt. He reached into the third bag and pulled out the leather ledger. He flipped it open. The pages were filled with detailed transit routes, payoff amounts, and the names of corrupt judges and politicians. It was the master operational ledger for the entire cartel distribution network on the East Coast.
"You didn't just steal from them," Alessio whispered, his voice dropping into a freezing, apocalyptic register. He looked at his cousin and her associate. "You hijacked their entire regional shipment and buried it in my wife's garden to frame me for the theft."
