Chapter 8
The red telephone was not connected to the estate's primary switchboard. It was an encrypted, direct satellite line installed beneath the desk—a line known to only four people in the entire country.
Cillian did not rush. He walked over to the mahogany desk, lifted the heavy receiver, and brought it smoothly to his ear.
“Speak,” Cillian commanded, his voice low and level.
A harsh, grating voice with a thick Boston accent crackled through the secure speaker, accompanied by the muffled rumble of a marine engine.
“Cillian,” the voice said, chuckling with dry, arrogant confidence. “I hear your engagement party had a bit of a hiccup.”
Cillian’s grip on the receiver remained effortless, but his eyes narrowed into twin slits of flint. “Tommy Callahan.”
“The one and only,” Callahan replied. “I just got a frantic dispatch from our mutual friend Rosamund before her signal went dark. Seems you found the ledger. Seems you think you’ve cleaned house.”
“The house is spotless, Tommy,” Cillian murmured, the pauses between his words stretching like drawn bowstrings. “And your girl is currently residing in my gatehouse, waiting for transport.”
“She wasn't my girl, Cillian. She was just a signature on a bill of lading,” Callahan laughed, the sound cold and grating. “You always were too sentimental about the help. While you were busy playing the white knight for that dead accountant's daughter, my boys took Pier 42.”
Linnea stiffened by the hearth, her hand flying to her throat as she heard the muffled words from the receiver.
Cillian did not flinch. His expression remained an unreadable mask of chiseled stone. “Pier 42 is under federal customs jurisdiction, Tommy. You don't have the paperwork to clear a single crate.”
“I didn't need the paperwork, Cillian,” Callahan said, his voice dropping into a vicious, triumphant sneer. “Your father signed the maritime waiver forty-eight hours ago. My freighters are docking right now. Two hundred containers of unregistered freight from Rotterdam. By dawn, the southern terminals belong to Boston.”
“Is that all?” Cillian asked softly.
“No, that’s not all,” Callahan replied. “You have two choices, Westcott. You bring the black ledger and the Bramley girl down to the pier by three in the morning, and we let you keep the northern logistics lines. Or we burn the docks from Manhattan to Jersey, and we drag you out of that mansion by your heels.”
The line went dead with a sharp, electronic click.
Cillian slowly lowered the receiver back onto its brass cradle. The study was silent again, save for the crackling of the dying embers in the fireplace.
Linnea stepped forward, her voice trembling with sudden, suffocating terror. “Pier 42... that was my father’s terminal. That’s where the company records were kept before the fire.”
“I know,” Cillian said quietly.
“Callahan wants the ledger because it contains the names of the customs officials my father documented,” Linnea realized, her mind racing as the puzzle pieces locked into place. “If Callahan gets those names, he doesn't just control the pier. He controls every cargo ship entering New York harbor.”
Cillian looked at her, a faint, approving gleam in his cold grey eyes. “You have your father’s mind, Linnea. Sharp. Analytical.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, stepping closer until she was standing just across the desk from him. “He has men at the docks. He has your father’s signatures.”
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Cillian reached into his suit jacket, drew out a sleek, matte-black customized automatic pistol, and checked the chamber with a single, crisp snap of his wrist.
“My father’s signature is worthless without the seal of the ruling Don, Linnea,” Cillian whispered, his handsome face transforming into something ancient, predatory, and terrifyingly lethal. “And Tommy Callahan is about to discover why Boston has never won a war in this city.”
