Chapter 40

  ? The Crate’s Secret ?

  The office was dim, lit only by a desk lamp whose glow cut sharp lines across Dominick’s features.

  Dominick tapped the ash of his cigarette into a tray, eyes steady on the two boys across from him. Dante leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, while Alex sat upright, hands folded tensely in his lap. The three of them formed a triangle—Dominick behind the heavy oak desk, Dante and Alex facing him, and each other.

  “So?” Dominick’s voice was calm, almost casual. “Anything?”

  Dante’s jaw tightened. “No. Same as the past days. We saw a lot of merchandise moving around, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing different from what Vince mentioned. Just boxes in and out, over and over. All the Veracci warehouses are busy, but that’s it.”

  Alex gave a small nod, confirming. "We have seen a few constables in the last couple of days doing random inspections. They showed them the merchandise. Just normal stuff."

  Dominick leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, the smoke curling toward the ceiling. He said nothing, and the silence pressed heavier than his words.

  Dante broke it. “I don’t think we can be of help here. All we can do is watch from afar. If we get closer, the men will notice the same kids hanging around all those stupid warehouses, asking questions. Our cover’ll be blown. You told us that yourself.”

  "We're at peace with the Veraccis and my men scouting could raise suspicion and mistrust. You two have no ties to me and therefore you're the only option." Dominick’s gaze sharpened. “Maybe we’re doing this the wrong way.”

  Alex and Dante exchanged a glance, then turned back to him.

  Dominick continued, voice low. “Maybe there’s something specific hidden among the legal goods.”

  Dante frowned. “What could it be?”

  Dominick’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “You tell me. Have you noticed extra attention on any containers? Ones that are more guarded than others?”

  Alex shook his head. “It’s hard to tell. There are so many of them and many warehouses on the list you gave us.”

  Dominick murmured. “Maybe... it means the endless moving is a distraction. A decoy.”

  Dante leaned forward. “Wouldn’t that be too much trouble?”

  “Yes…” Dominick’s eyes narrowed as if seeing the entire board in his head. “Their shipments have been late because of it. If they’re willing to slow business, whatever they’re hiding is worth it... Something bigger is happening here.”

  The room went quiet. The lamp buzzed faintly.

  "From now on, forget about the merchandise or the boxes. Focus on the behavior of the men working in there."

  Dominick reached for a fountain pen lying beside the ashtray and scratched a mark on a folded sheet of paper. Then he tapped it with his finger, sliding it across the desk. His eyes stayed on Dante.

  “Go to this one later tonight.”

  Dante picked up the note, scanning the address. He gave a curt nod. “Alright.” He folded the paper and slipped it into his coat.

  Dante slipped the folded note into his coat. For a moment, Dominick kept his eyes on him, sharp and unblinking, reading something in the boy’s posture, in the way his mischief sat differently these days. Then his gaze slid to Alex—thoughtful, guarded, too deep in his own head to notice how closely he was being studied.

  "Dante usually addresses me as 'boss'... Not that I asked him to, but he has been doing it less in the last few days."

  "Something’s changed. Their tone. Their silences. Especially Dante. He carries himself differently. Less fear. More… rebellion."

  Dominick rose suddenly, the chair legs scraping faintly against the floor. He moved toward the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching the night city below. Alex, lost in thought, didn’t even look up. Slowly, silently, Dominick crossed the room again. His steps made no sound on the rug.

  He stopped just behind Alex’s chair. Dante noticed first—his brows shot up, the careless smirk wiped clean. He leaned forward, breath catching.

  Dominick’s hand hovered, then crept toward Alex’s neck as if to close around it.

  Dante gasped and shot to his feet. For the first time, his mischief was gone, replaced by raw alarm.

  Alex turned, startled by Dante’s reaction, only to find Dominick right there—towering over him, hand poised. His chest tightened in a rush of fear.

  Then the hand shifted, casually tugging at his collar.

  “Straighten up,” Dominick said smoothly, adjusting the boy as though nothing had happened.

  Dante exhaled hard, his chest rising and falling fast.

  Dominick’s eyes narrowed, catching every flicker between them. “Remember. Don’t act if you find something. Report to me. That’s it.”

  He stepped back, glasses catching the lamplight until his eyes vanished in the glare. “Dismissed.”

  The boys hesitated, exchanging a glance, then rose together and left the office.

  A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “They bonded much quicker than expected…”

  He leaned back in his chair, the smirk sharpening. Not a warm one, but amused—unbothered by the silent rebellion forming under his nose. If anything, he looked entertained.

  On the stairwell, the night air was cooler, easier to breathe.

  Alex’s voice was tight. “What was that…?”

  Dante forced a crooked grin, though his knuckles were white on the railing. “Guess he was just fixing your collar.”

  His grin faded. “Alex… I’m sorry, but he still scares me. I’m serious about not looking up to Dominick anymore. I don’t want to. But you don’t shake years of feelings in a few days.”

  Alex shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize. He scares me too. As much as I hate these missions—and as much as I want to sabotage them—I can’t. He’s too sharp. He’ll notice.” His fists clenched. “And I can’t risk my parents’ lives or even yours. I have to go along.”

  Dante’s face hardened. He placed a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Then I’m with you. All the way. Fully on your side.”

  Alex’s eyes flicked to him, faintly amused through the weight of his fear. “Stop calling it sides. You make it sound like some game, and you’re just a piece I need to keep close.”

  Dante chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Fine. If you say so, buddy.”

  Alex tilted his head, curiosity cutting through his fatigue. “By the way… this Veracci family—same one that had the gun deal with Vince, right?”

  “Yep,” Dante replied, quick and flat.

  Alex's smile faded into a tired sigh. “I wanted to visit Mira in the clinic… but between Mr Harris’s shop and these searches, there’s no time.”

  “Then let’s finish this fast.” Dante responded.

  The two stepped out into the night, side by side.

  The night draped the industrial district in its heavy silence. From the rooftop, Alex and Dante lay low, eyes fixed on the warehouse below. A lantern or two glowed at the entrance, casting long shadows against the brick walls. Henchmen—not ordinary dockworkers—moved cargo in and out with practiced indifference, boots thudding on the cobblestones. A wagon outside waited.

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  Dante exhaled through his nose, propping his head on his hand. “Same… nothing unusual.” His voice was flat, edged with boredom. “Let's go.”

  Alex squinted, studying the rhythm of the workers. He remembered Dominick's instructions to watch the people, not the objects.

  His hand lifted, pointing. “No, Dante. Look. It’s different here. The men are more alert. And watch—see how careful they are with those crates?”

  Dante raised his head, following Alex’s finger. He frowned. “Hmm… yeah. One of ’em checked a container twice, like he was looking for a mark. Didn’t do that with the others. But doesn't mean much.”

  Alex nodded, the lantern glow catching in his eyes. “Let’s wait a little.”

  Minutes dragged on. The steady shuffle of boots and the scrape of wood against stone filled the silence. The men kept working with the same rhythm—lifting, carrying, setting down. Ordinary, almost dull, if not for the way every so often one of them lingered a second too long over a particular container before moving on.

  Dante stifled a yawn, resting his chin on his arm. “Thrilling,” he muttered.

  Alex rubbed at his eyes, forcing himself to stay sharp. The monotony made it worse—like watching the tide roll in and out, nothing changing except the lantern light flickering when the night breeze swept by.

  Finally, he shifted, palms pressing to the roof as he prepared to push himself up. Then he froze.

  Something caught his eye.

  A crate moved. On its own.

  His breath caught. “Look.”

  Dante frowned, following his gaze.

  The crate tipped, rocking unsteadily before falling onto its side with a hollow thud. The reaction was immediate. Henchmen rushed at it as though it contained something volatile, panic flaring in their movements.

  One darted inside the warehouse and came back clutching a folded handkerchief. The other pried open the container.

  The boys’ hearts froze.

  Inside was a girl.

  She was small, fragile, her limbs bound tight with coarse rope, mouth muffled so her cries came out as broken, pitiful sounds. Her face was pale, smudged with grime, and her hair stuck in wild tangles against her damp skin. She blinked frantically in the night air, chest heaving as though she had been fighting for breath in the dark box. For a brief, aching second she half-slumped out of the wooden box, her eyes wide with a helpless plea.

  But rough hands seized her, dragging her back. The henchman’s grip was iron, almost frantic. The other pressed the cloth over her face, and her terrified struggle slowed into weak, trembling jerks. The last sound she made was a muffled whimper, before her body sagged, limp.

  Carefully, they laid her back inside the container and began sealing it shut again.

  Alex felt his stomach twist, a cold wave of horror coursing through him.

  Dante’s voice was low, unsettled. “Who… was that? Is that... who they were hiding?”

  Alex didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed locked on the sight below, pupils wide as if he’d just seen something obscene. Finally, a hoarse whisper escaped him. “How could they…?”

  Alex’s fists clenched against the rooftop edge. Every fiber of him wanted to move—now. To leap down, break the door, tear that girl free. But he forced himself still, breath shallow. “We have to do something.” He turned sharply to Dante, his voice steadier now. “Go get help. I’ll keep watch.”

  Dante hesitated, studying him. “Alright. But don’t go in by yourself. They can be armed. Don’t—” his voice firmed, almost pleading, “—don’t be a hero. Hear me?”

  Alex nodded, though the look in his eyes said nothing would chain him if things went wrong.

  Dante rose, gave him one last glance, then sprinted across the rooftop, vanishing into the dark.

  Minutes bled into each other, but Alex didn’t move. His eyes were pinned to the container, every heartbeat syncing with it, as if staring alone could anchor it to the warehouse floor.

  "Stay."

  "Please… stay here until help gets here."

  "Please."

  But then came the sight he dreaded— The wooden box shifted, dragged, and lifted toward the wagon. His nails dug into the rooftop edge, desperate enough to bleed. Watching them haul the girl away — inside a crate — felt like having his ribs pried open.

  "If I let them leave... I may not be able to find her again. Seeing her now was a miracle and very lucky..."

  And then—no hesitation.

  Alex rose and moved. Every step carried the sharp, unflinching urgency of someone whose choice had already been made. He slipped down the stairs of the building, quiet as a shadow, pulse thrumming like a drumbeat in his ears.

  He cut through the alleys, slipping from wall to wall, each corner bringing him closer to the warehouse yard. Each turn, each careful step, tightened the coil in his chest. By the time he reached the last stretch of darkness, the shouts of the men were clear.

  Finally, he got right at the corner of the warehouse. The henchmen cursed and muttered as they loaded other wooden boxes. Alex kept to the dark edges, crouched low, moving inch by inch between the cover of barrels and stacked planks. His breath came shallow, his body taut with fear and determination both. The wagon loomed larger, the girl’s prison thudding inside as it settled.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Finally, when their backs were turned, he lunged for his only chance. Sliding beneath the wagon, Alex stretched out flat on his back, the dirt cold against his shoulders. Being small, slight—like he was—made it possible to squeeze under the wooden frame where a grown man would have been stuck or seen. Above him, the floorboards rattled with every creak of the wheels. He reached up and caught hold of the thick iron crossbeam that braced the axle, his fingers locking around the rough metal. His boots wedged against a slanting support strut, giving his legs something to press against. Suspended there, his body pinned between earth and wood, he clung tight as the wagon jolted into motion, every jolt threatening to shake him loose.

  It began to move.

  The wood creaked, dirt spat up against his clothes, his arms screamed with strain—but Alex held.

  The wagon rattled along the uneven cobblestones, night thick around it, shadows flickering as it moved. Alex pressed himself flat on his back beneath the wooden floorboards, gripping the iron crossbeam as the wheels hummed beneath him. Every jolt bit into his arms and shoulders, his grip screaming in protest after minutes of clinging tight.

  Then, suddenly, the wagon ground to a halt. The stillness rushed over him, almost a relief, and for a heartbeat Alex let himself sag against the dirt, chest heaving. A sharp whistle cut through the night air, and his body went rigid again. "Constables", he thought, heart slamming as he froze in place.

  A uniformed man approached, lantern in hand.

  “Evening,” the constable called. “Mind if we inspect the cargo?”

  One of the Veracci henchmen bristled, stepping forward, hands raised. “Inspection? We are behind on schedule, officer.” he shoved lightly toward the officer.

  The constable planted his boots firmly. “I insist. I need to see the contents of the cargo.”

  The other henchman, more cautious, raised a hand in appeasement. “Alright… but don’t take much of our time,” he said politely, descending to open the nearest wooden box.

  Alex exhaled silently. "Good… they’ll find her. Just stay calm."

  The first one was lifted. Bottles of wine clinked softly. The second followed, identical. The third box opened, and the henchman’s eyes darted nervously to two crates at the back.

  “Hey, sir,” the first henchman called, tension in his voice. “You’re not going to check all of them, right?”

  The constable’s tone was sharp, unwavering. “I’m afraid I have to.”

  Alex felt it—the air shift, the brush of intent as the second henchman descended. His body tensed, every muscle coiling instinctively. He glimpsed the man’s hand brushing toward the gun at his belt. Fear flared.

  One constable muttered to his partner, voice low: “We cleared those guys last night, didn’t we?”

  "We did?"

  The two men exchanged glances, the tension in their eyes thick. A moment stretched on, filled with the groan of the wagon and distant night sounds, until finally, the first constable muttered with a frustrated sigh, “Fine… I guess that’s enough for tonight.”

  The henchmen released their taut shoulders, hiding the containers with practiced precision. “Thank you for wasting our time, sirs,” one said, mounting back onto the wagon.

  Alex clenched the beam again as the wagon lurched forward. Relief surged through him, ice-cold and sharp.

  No one’s life lost. Not yet.

  Minutes later, the wagon finally shuddered to a stop. Alex pressed himself flat against the dirt for a moment, letting the tension bleed out slowly. He listened, ears straining over the creak of the wheels. “Let’s stop here,” a voice muttered above him, and he let out a quiet breath, sliding free from the iron beam. His body hit the ground, aching but grateful for a moment of rest.

  He glanced quickly, ensuring the wagon wasn’t about to depart again, then crawled carefully from underneath. He found himself just outside another warehouse—one of the many he and Dante checked in the previous days. Pressing himself against the side of the building, he melted into shadow behind a splintered wall, moving just enough to see the two Veracci henchmen as they began offloading crates.

  Crouched low, heart hammering, Alex stayed behind a broken fence, eyes locked on the scene. The men, hulking and imposing, jumped from the wagon, one dragging a foot slightly, their sheer size and fluidity of movement marking them as dangerous and efficient. Without a glance over their shoulders, they opened the warehouse doors and slipped inside. They hadn’t even checked their trail—they were confident, careless in their assumption that no one followed.

  Alex edged forward like a mist weaving through alleyways, keeping close to the shadows until a stack of crates offered cover. Peeking through a narrow gap, he could see the dim lanterns casting pools of weak light across the warehouse floor, highlighting stacked wood and scattered supplies.

  Inside, the Veracci men spoke, low but clear enough to catch every word.

  “That was close,” one muttered, lighting a smoke.

  Alex held his breath, listening.

  “Which one? The girl waking up? Or the inspection?”

  “Both…Leaving the twins in the city was a bad decision. Now they closed the gates and cargo control in ships is even tighter. Stuck moving them around as they thought the deal will go smoothly.”

  "Can't be helped. Leaving them in one place is very dangerous with the recent inspections. Believe it or not, a couple of the warehouses were checked from top to bottom. Not one box left unchecked."

  "That's what happens when you mess with a noble house like the Algraves."

  Alex absorbed the words, his pulse quickening. "Twins? There is another one?... Algraves?" He repeated the words in his head, trying to make sense of them. "The girl they drugged… she’s a noble?"

  “Seeing the girl like that breaks my heart,” the first man exhaled, smoke curling into the dim light. “What is wrong with the negotiations anyway?”

  “Right? Can you imagine the parents won’t cave?”

  “I would cave seeing that girl like this,” he ground out, teeth clenched. “Damn nobles. Always putting politics before even their own blood.”

  “Hey, let’s prepare the dose. One of them might wake up again. This time it will be the boy. Such a punchable face.” As he stands up.

  “Tomorrow is the last due date. We will… get rid of them if there is no deal?”

  The other hesitated before answering, voice tight. “No choice. If… their parents won’t care, then it’s on them. Not us. But let’s hope they will abide by tomorrow.”

  “Alright… let’s move in half an hour.”

  Alex’s chest tightened, a cold lump forming in his stomach. He knew exactly what this meant. The tone, the urgency, the methodical care—they were preparing for something irreversible.

  His mind raced. "I have to assume the worst. Dante won’t find me where he left me. If I run back now to get help, I may lose these guys." He looks at the trace in each palm, skin a little torn off and bleeding. "And I don't know if my grip can last more if I hold on to the crossbeam again."

  He swallowed hard, knowing his limits. "Still… what can I do alone? They are armed. Ready to even take out the constables if pushed further earlier."

  He checked his surroundings, eyes scanning for anything he could use. Silent and determined, he prepared to move.