Chapter 3 - The Traitor's Blueprint
The laundry room of Blackwater House was situated deep in the sandstone foundations of the estate, three levels below the grand ballroom where the crystal chandeliers hung. It was a space of damp heat, the constant, rhythmic slosh of the industrial washers, and the smell of bleach and lavender water.
I sat on a wooden crate of soap powder, my arms wrapped around Emma as she slept. She had fallen asleep with her head in my lap, her thumb tucked into her mouth, her breathing shallow but clear. The pink inhaler was clutched in her small fist, her fingers white from the tightness of her grip.
The concrete walls around us were four feet thick, built during the civil war when the house had been a fort for the wealthy merchants of the Hudson Valley. But to me, they felt like the walls of a trap.
Every sound from the floor above—the distant clank of the dumbwaiter, the hum of the water pipes, the heavy tread of the security guards’ boots—made my skin prickle with a cold, electric sweat.
I had spent my life running from the shadow of the docks. My father had died there, his chest crushed by a falling shipping container when I was ten. My mother had spent thirty years washing the blood out of the shirts of men who didn't exist in the city directory. I had promised myself that Emma would never see the inside of a room where the windows were barred and the men wore their coats inside.
And now, we were in the deepest cellar of the most dangerous house in New York, waiting for a mafia war to decide whether we lived to see the morning.
The heavy iron door of the laundry room creaked open.
I scrambled back, pulling Emma behind my legs, my eyes wide as a figure stepped through the steam.
It was Enzo.
He had taken off his cashmere coat. He wore a dark gray wool vest over his white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, hairy forearms scarred by old grease burns. In his right hand, he carried a small leather satchel.
"Sarah," he said.
He didn't sound angry. He sounded like a man who had just completed a very long, very tedious calculation.
"Mr. Enzo," I said, my voice trembling. "I... we were just waiting. Mr. Moretti said—"
"I know what Alessandro said," Enzo interrupted. He set the leather satchel on the folding table, next to a pile of white guest towels. "He told me to bring you some food. And some clean sheets. He said you’d be staying in the old nursery behind the kitchen for the night."
He unzipped the satchel. Inside was a container of chicken soup from the Italian deli on the corner, a sleeve of crackers, and two small bottles of mineral water. But beneath the food, at the bottom of the bag, lay a thick blue folder.
"Do you know what this is?" Enzo asked, lifting the folder.
"No," I said.
"It’s your mother’s file from St. Jude," he said. "Victor’s sister, Clara, sent it to Victor’s office email three days ago. Along with a copy of your cousin’s lease on East 115th Street."
He set the folder on the towels.
"Victor has been paying your mother’s medical bills for the last three months, Sarah," Enzo said, his eyes drilling into mine. "The extra charges. The physical therapy. The private room with the window that looks out on the park. That’s five hundred dollars a month. More than you make in a week."
My stomach dropped into a cold, bottomless void.
"I didn't know," I choked out. "The administrator... she told me it was a grant. She said there was a charity fund for the widows of dockworkers. She said... she said my father’s union had a legacy program."
"There is no charity fund," Enzo said. "The union has been broke since ninety-four. Victor Bianchi is the only charity program in that district. And he doesn't give away five hundred dollars a month because he likes old laundry women."
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over Emma’s sleeping face.
"He bought you, Sarah. Or at least, he thought he did. He wanted a key to the west wing. He wanted someone who could move around Alessandro’s desk without the cameras logging a strange face. He’s been planning this since the spring, when the Chicago crews started offering him thirty percent of the port revenues if Alessandro was out of the picture."
"I didn't do it!" I screamed, the sound echoing off the wet concrete walls. "I swear to God, Enzo! I didn't touch the mail! I didn't switch the inhaler! I didn't even know he had asthma until today!"
"I know," Enzo said quietly.
I stopped, my chest heaving, my tears hot on my cheeks. "You... you know?"
"Alessandro’s desk has a pressure plate under the floorboards," Enzo said. "It logs the weight of whoever stands in front of the blotter. Between eleven and twelve today, only two weights were registered. One was ninety-eight kilograms. That’s Victor. The other was eighteen kilograms."
He looked down at Emma.
"That’s her."
The room went completely silent except for the low, rhythmic hum of the water heater in the corner.
"Victor didn't use you," Enzo said. "He didn't need to. He thought he had you in his pocket because of your mother, but he got impatient. The Chicago people told him the docks were going to be raided by the feds next week, and he had to move fast. He put the poison on the desk himself. He thought Alessandro would take a hit from the inhaler before the lunch meeting, go into spasm, and by the time anyone found him, Victor would be in the car to Newark with the family Ledgers."
"Why are you telling me this?" I whispered.
"Because Victor doesn't know he failed yet," Enzo said. "He thinks Alessandro is dead, or dying. He’s currently at the yacht club in Sheepshead Bay, waiting for his sister to call him with the news from St. Jude. He thinks Clara is going to tell him that your mother has been moved to a state facility because the 'charity fund' ran out."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black burner phone, sliding it across the table toward me.
"You’re going to call him, Sarah."
I stared at the black plastic device as if it were a scorpion.
"What?"
"You’re going to call Victor," Enzo said. "You’re going to tell him that your mother’s doctor just called you. Tell him she’s having an emergency. Tell him she’s been admitted to the hospital in Queens, and that you need his help. Tell him you found something in Alessandro’s office when you went to clean the desk."
"No," I said, backing away until my head hit the copper pipes of the washer. "No, please. I can't. He’ll know I'm lying. He’ll kill us."
"If you don't call him, Victor’s sister will realize the house hasn't gone into lockdown," Enzo said. "She’ll call him. He’ll realize the poison didn't work, and he’ll go deep. He’s got five safe houses in Jersey and three in Connecticut. If he gets away, Alessandro will have to clear the docks with fire. That means fifty men dead before the month is out. Including your brother in upstate, who’s currently sitting in a cell that Victor’s people control."
May you like
He picked up the phone and pressed it into my hand.
"Alessandro is waiting," Enzo said. "The line is already open."
