Chapter 5 - The Night Messenger
The rain over the West Side warehouses was a thick, greasy mist that smelled of old oil and river silt. Tessa pulled her old woolen coat tight around her throat as she stepped off the night bus, her cheap shoes splashing through the deep puddles of Cicero Avenue.
Behind her, the shadows of the industrial district shifted. She wasn't alone. A dark sedan with its headlights turned off had been trailing the bus for three blocks. Dominic’s street crews were vigilant, keeping watch over any movement near Silvio’s territory.
Tessa didn't quicken her pace. She walked with the deliberate, tired stride of a domestic worker heading home after a twelve-hour shift. She turned into the narrow alleyway that led to the back entrance of the Corvino Shipping Syndicate’s main warehouse.
Before she could reach the metal security door, a rough hand closed around her arm, spinning her around and shoving her into the brick wall.
"You’re a long way from the big house, sweetheart," a voice sneered through the darkness. It was Leo, one of Dominic’s personal enforcers, his leather jacket damp from the rain, a small silver knife glinting in his right hand. "The underboss said to keep an eye on the staff. What’s in the pocket?"
Tessa didn't scream. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but she kept her face perfectly blank, just as she did when Vincent threw his tantrums in the bedroom. "I’m delivering a package of linen samples for the office, sir. The manager said they needed them by morning."
"Let's see the samples," Leo said, his hand reaching into her coat pocket.
His fingers closed around the sealed envelope, but before he could pull it out, a heavy iron pipe descended from the darkness above, striking Leo directly across the forearm with a sickening crack. The knife clattered against the wet asphalt, and Leo dropped to his knees, howling in agony as he clutched his broken arm.
Silvio stood in the alleyway, his massive frame filling the narrow space, a double-barreled shotgun resting casually against his shoulder. His silver hair was slicked back, his old-school wool overcoat open despite the cold.
"You’re entering the wrong house, Leo," Silvio growled, his voice a deep baritone that sent the running enforcer scrambling back toward the dark sedan at the end of the block.
Silvio turned his sharp, weathered eyes down to Tessa, who was leaning against the brick wall, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He looked at the envelope protruding from her pocket, then back at her tired, steady face.
"You’re Vince’s girl," Silvio said, not as an insult, but as a statement of fact. "The one who didn't let him die in that hospital room."
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"Mr. Corvino sent me," Tessa said, her hands shaking as she pulled the envelope out and handed it to him. "He says it’s time to balance the ledger."
Silvio took the letter, his thumb tracing the heavy wax seal—the private crest of the Corvino Don. A slow, grim smile broke through his scarred features. "Tell the boss that the West Side is still his. We’ve been waiting for the king to wake up."
