Chapter 4

The fog was rolling over the Brooklyn docks at dawn as I pulled my black coat tighter and walked briskly forward.

The blood-red words of the threatening letter were still burning in my mind, but fear had transformed into fury. If they wanted my life, let them come.

The seawater slapped against the rotting wooden posts, creating an unsettling rhythm that matched my racing heartbeat.

"Miss, over here." Tony's voice came from the abandoned warehouse, low and alert.

Walking into the dimly lit warehouse, I saw casino owner Marco pacing nervously back and forth, cigarette butts scattered across the floor.

Marco was a shrewd Italian man who, two years ago, had his casino threatened by another family. I had secretly helped him resolve the trouble. Since then, he owed me a favor.

Seeing me enter, he immediately came forward.

"Miss Corleone, you're here." Marco lowered his voice, "There are people patrolling outside. We need to be quick."

"Tell me about Frankie's situation," I said, looking directly into Marco's eyes. "That witness—what's his status now?"

Marco swallowed hard. "That punk Frankie suddenly got rich three years ago—bought a new house and car." He lit a cigarette, his hand trembling slightly. "A small-time crook who couldn't even pay rent before."

Tony emerged from the shadows, his face grim. "Miss, someone powerful is backing him. Someone big."

"How big?" My voice was sharp as a blade.

"Big enough to plant informants inside our family." Tony handed me a file folder. "This is a fragment of the bank records I managed to dig up."

I opened the file, my pupils contracting sharply. For three years, Frankie's account had received a fixed monthly hush payment—fifty thousand dollars, with the source account encrypted.

Someone was indeed orchestrating everything from behind the scenes, even the witnesses were pre-arranged.

"Find the source of the funds," I said, my voice as cold as a winter sea breeze. "Whoever's paying him is my target."

Marco stubbed out his cigarette. "That would require using some... special channels."

"Then use them," I stared at him directly. "Do it now."

An hour later, I followed them to the back office of Marco's casino. The dim desk lamp cast swaying shadows, and the old photographs on the walls looked eerie in the light.

Marco opened an old safe and pulled out several business cards of bank insiders.

"These people owe me favors," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "But accessing high-level internal accounts is very risky."

"Risky?" I laughed coldly. "More risky than being used as a scapegoat for murder?"

Marco dialed the first number. A deep male voice came through the phone, and they conversed in code for several minutes. I could hear the tension in Marco's voice, sweat beading on his palms. When he hung up, his face was pale as paper.

"Well?" Tony asked nervously.

"Which account did the funds come from?" I pressed directly.

Marco wiped the sweat from his forehead, hesitating. "A high-level account I recognize... but I'm not certain..." He didn't finish, but I could hear the fear in his trembling voice.

Just then, we heard rapid, rhythmic footsteps from downstairs—not the footsteps of passersby, but the disciplined pace of trained patrols. Marco's face changed dramatically as he immediately extinguished the desk lamp and signaled for silence.

Through the gaps in the blinds, I saw three men in black surveying the area below, their hands positioned at their waists, movements alert and professional.

A chill ran down my spine—the leader looked up toward the second floor, and I recognized that cold face. He was one of Riccardo's most ruthless killers.

"Someone's been tracking you. We need to be careful," Marco's voice was almost trembling.

I immediately retreated to the wall corner, my heart pounding like a drum. Had we been discovered? Or was this just routine patrol? The footsteps downstairs grew closer—someone was heading up the stairs.

"Back door, quickly!" Marco pointed toward a hidden passage at the rear of the room.

We rushed through the narrow corridor, hearing the creaking of floorboards behind us—someone was coming upstairs! I held my breath as we burst through the back door, scattering through the casino's back alley.

Pulling my hat low, I quickly disappeared into the night, cold sweat trickling down my back, my heart racing uncontrollably.

Two hours later, I finally arrived at Tony's safe house.

This secret location was in an inconspicuous apartment building in Queens, with rooms filled with surveillance equipment and files.

"Miss, we're being watched," Tony checked the curtains, ensuring there were no gaps. "But I have a bigger discovery."

He opened a laptop, the screen displaying dense travel records. As I leaned in to look, my heart nearly stopped.

"Vincent Santoro has been very active lately, meeting people he shouldn't be meeting," Tony pointed to the red markers on the screen. "Black & Associates Law Firm, peripheral personnel from the Federal Prosecutor's Office, and several retired FBI agents."

Vincent—Riccardo's most trusted lieutenant, also my father's old friend, a man who had watched me grow up.

"Uncle Vincent? He's Riccardo's most trusted man," I said, disbelief in my voice.

"Miss, sometimes the most trusted people are the most dangerous," Tony brought up more data. "The timing of these contacts corresponds exactly with the key moments of... those fabricated charges against you."

The timeline was clearly displayed on the screen: In October three years ago, Vincent met with Black & Associates Law Firm; that same month, the false FBI cooperation evidence appeared. In December three years ago, Vincent met with retired FBI agents; that same month, Frankie received his first hush payment.

If even Vincent was involved, this conspiracy was deeper than I had imagined. The uncle who had loved me since childhood was actually trying to destroy me?

"Keep investigating," I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. "I need concrete evidence."

As we were leaving the safe house, my phone suddenly rang.

"Miss! Marco's been hurt!" Tony's voice was panicked. "St. Mary's Hospital, come quickly!"

My blood turned to ice. When I reached the emergency room, the pungent smell of disinfectant mixed with the metallic scent of blood nearly suffocated me. Marco had already been wheeled into surgery, the white sheets stained with shocking crimson.

"Three masked men with baseball bats," the duty nurse reported briefly. "Severe injuries—multiple fractures, internal bleeding."

I watched through the operating room's glass window as the doctors worked frantically. The two-hour wait felt like two centuries, every minute and second torturing my nerves.

The operating room door slowly opened. The doctor removed his mask and shook his head. "We did everything we could, but..."

"Let me see him one last time," I said, my voice dead as ash.

In the intensive care unit, Marco lay in the hospital bed, connected to various tubes. Seeing me enter, he struggled to open his eyes.

"Bianca... be careful... inside the family..." his voice was as weak as a whisper.

"Marco, who is it? Tell me who!" I gripped his cold hand, asking urgently.

Using his last bit of strength, Marco trembled as he spoke a few words:

"Not... not Riccardo... closer... to your father..."

As soon as he spoke, the heart monitor let out a piercing, continuous beep.

"I'm sorry, we did everything we could," the doctor entered the room again, announcing softly.

I stood quietly by the bedside, watching Marco's eyes close forever. My hands were trembling—not from fear, but from rage.

Another friend dead because of me. Another life lost because of my investigation.

But Marco's words echoed repeatedly in my mind—closer to your father.

Someone closer to father than Vincent... who could that be?