Chapter 6 - The Federal Audit
Two days after Camila’s explosive exit, the war moved from the Southampton estate to the corporate glass towers of Manhattan.
Arthur Vance burst into Theodore’s private study just as Beatrice was reviewing the monthly supply invoices for her bakery. The old lawyer looked as though he had run a marathon in a three-piece suit, his forehead slick with sweat, a thick manila envelope clutched in his fist.
“Mr. Castellan. Mrs. Castellan,” Arthur panted, stopping by the edge of the mahogany desk. “The federal task force. They just executed a search warrant on the downtown shipping terminals.”
Theodore didn't look up from his laptop. “Which terminal?”
“Pier 42. The primary customs hub.” Arthur dropped the manila envelope onto the desk. Photographs spilled out across the polished wood. Customs agents in tactical gear, federal marshals, and open shipping containers filled with unmanifested luxury goods and cash ledgers. “They’re claiming the Castellan logistics network has been funneling unregistered capital through shell companies for the last six years.”
Beatrice set her invoice down, leaning forward to inspect one of the photographs. Her brow furrowed. “Wait. Look at the shipping codes on these crates.”
Arthur blinked, adjusting his glasses. “What about them, Mrs. Castellan?”
“Those aren't Castellan codes,” Beatrice said, pointing a finger at a small, stamped serial number in the corner of a metal container. “Those are Rossi logistics markings. My father’s trucking company hauled freight for the Brooklyn docks ten years ago. I recognize the inventory numbering system. The Rossis are framing you.”
Theodore stopped typing. He slowly turned his head to look at Beatrice, his dark eyes narrowing in sharp, intense focus. “Explain.”
“It’s simple,” Beatrice said, standing up and pacing across the Persian rug. “Camila’s father has been losing market share on the waterfront for months. If the feds raid your terminals using fabricated manifests with your shell company names attached, your assets get frozen, your board of directors panics, and the Rossi syndicate swoops in to buy up your logistics grid for pennies on the dollar.”
Arthur stared at her in stunned silence. “My God... she’s right. The shell companies listed on these warrants were registered out of a post office box in Hoboken under a fake name—Vanguard Global.”
Theodore stood up slowly from his leather chair. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with the unmistakable energy of a predator preparing to strike.
“Vanguard Global,” Theodore muttered, a dark, dangerous smile touching his lips. “Arthur, pull up the financial records of Vanguard Global. Let’s see who bought the controlling shares of that shell company three weeks ago.”
Arthur flew to a side console, tapping furiously on a secure terminal. Within thirty seconds, a name flashed on the screen.
Salvatore Rossi.
Theodore’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of cold, absolute wrath. He picked up his phone, dialing a direct, encrypted line with his thumb.
“Marcus? Get the recovery team together,” Theodore commanded into the phone, his voice like grinding ice. “We’re paying a visit to the Brooklyn docks. And bring the forensic accounting files. We’re going to show the feds who’s really running the black-market shipping ring.”
He hung up and looked across the desk at Beatrice. She was watching him with a calm, unwavering gaze, her arms crossed over her chest.
“You’re coming with me,” Theodore said.
May you like
Beatrice blinked in surprise. “To a mob war in Brooklyn? I’m a baker, Theodore, not a getaway driver.”
“You’re my chief forensic strategist,” Theodore corrected smoothly, walking around the desk and stopping inches from her. “You spotted the Rossi shipping codes in five seconds. If we’re going to dismantle Salvatore Rossi once and for all, I want the woman who out-waltzed me standing right by my side.”
