Danica
The air at Port Fortuna is different. It’s a living thing, tasting of salt, diesel, and rust. It’s the smell of money and power, a scent I know better than any perfume. Today, however, it’s soured by the cloying aroma of compromise.
Our new shared office is a glass box overlooking the Blakewood-controlled eastern docks. Lorenzo stands beside me, his broad shoulders blocking half the view. He’s staring down at the swarm of activity, a king surveying a kingdom he now has to share.
“Look at them,” he mutters, his voice a low rumble. “Falcone security, strutting around our docks like they own the place.”
“They co-own it now,” I say, my voice even. I keep my eyes on the digital logistics board, a live feed of every container, every truck, every crane on our side.
“Don’t remind me.”
The door slides open. Marco Bellini walks in, a smirk already plastered on his face. He’s one of Dante Falcone’s top men, a captain with a reputation for brutality and an ego the size of a container ship. He completely ignores me.
“Lorenzo,” he says, his tone falsely cheerful. “Morning walk going well? Making sure your boys know how to lift a box properly?”
“My boys could teach your thugs a thing or two, Bellini,” Lorenzo bites back.
“I’m sure they could. Maybe a lesson on how to misplace a shipment of Italian leather, perhaps? We’re still waiting on that manifest from Tuesday.”
“It’s being processed,” I say, without looking away from the screen.
Marco’s head snaps towards me, as if he just noticed the talking furniture. His eyes rake over my silk blouse and tailored trousers. “Is it now? I didn’t realize you were on the payroll, principessa. I thought you were just here to make the place look pretty.”
My fingers tighten on the tablet in my hand. “The manifest was flagged for a weight discrepancy. Standard protocol is to hold it for secondary inspection. Unless Falcone protocol is to just let potential contraband slide?”
Marco’s smirk falters for a half second. He wasn’t expecting a real answer. He wasn’t expecting me to know the protocol at all.
Lorenzo claps a hand on my shoulder, a gesture that is meant to look supportive but feels like a warning. “My sister is just observing. All port business goes through me.”
He steers me away from the main console, effectively silencing me again. “Let me handle him,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my ear. “You’re making things worse.”
The morning crawls by, a slow-motion battle of a thousand tiny cuts. Marco questions every decision made by a Blakewood dock foreman. He reroutes one of our supply trucks on a “security check” that lasts ninety minutes, causing a minor backup at Gate 3. He speaks only to Lorenzo, or to my father’s capos, even when I am the one standing right there, holding the relevant paperwork.
Every move is calculated to undermine, to insinuate that our family is not up to the task of managing its half of the port. That we are weak. That I am nothing more than a decoration.
Around noon, the pressure intensifies. A ship carrying high-end electronics, a crucial import for one of our biggest clients, is ready to be unloaded at Pier 7.
“Crane Four is the fastest,” I say, looking at the performance metrics on my tablet. “Its last maintenance cycle was two days ago. It’s our best option for a priority unload.”
Lorenzo nods, relaying the order into his radio. He makes it sound like his own idea.
Marco leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You sure about that? Crane Four is an old model. Prone to… issues. But then, you Blakewoods do have a taste for outdated things.”
“It’s reliable,” I state, my eyes fixed on the live camera feed of the pier.
“Whatever you say.” He shrugs, but his eyes are gleaming. He’s waiting for something.
The massive crane, a giant metal beast, swings its arm out over the cargo ship. The magnetic grapple lowers, locking onto the first container with a heavy thud that we can feel even through the glass. The unloading process begins.
It happens on the third container.
The crane lifts the forty-foot steel box high into the air. It swings smoothly at first, moving to place the container onto the waiting truck bed below. Then, there is a sound. A high, sickening screech of tortured metal that cuts through the dull roar of the port.
The crane arm judders. It stops dead in the air.
“What’s happening?” Lorenzo barks into his radio.
A panicked voice crackles back. “Hydraulics are shot! We’ve lost all pressure! The arm is frozen!”
Below, on the dock, men are scattering, shouting, pointing up at the metal box dangling precariously over their heads.
“Can you lower it manually?” I ask, my voice sharp and clear. My heart is hammering against my ribs, but my mind is racing through emergency procedures.
“Negative! The emergency release is jammed! The whole system is fried!”
My blood runs cold. The container is suspended directly over the main access lane for the entire eastern dock. Nothing can get in or out of Pier 7, 8, or 9. The entire section is paralyzed.
“A malfunction,” Lorenzo says, his face pale. “It’s just a damn malfunction.”
But I see Marco’s reflection in the glass. He hasn’t moved. He is smiling. A wide, triumphant, vicious smile.
He pushes himself off the doorframe and walks to the center of the room, his presence filling the space. He picks up a radio from the console.
“Bellini to all Falcone channels,” he says, his voice smooth as poison. “Be advised, the Blakewood side of the port is experiencing a… technical difficulty. Looks like one of their cranes has failed. A significant and costly delay, it seems.”
He pauses, letting the implication hang in the air for every man on the docks, Blakewood and Falcone alike, to hear. Lorenzo looks like he’s about to lunge at him.
Marco’s eyes find mine. The smirk is back, sharp and cruel. He brings the radio to his lips again, his gaze locked on me.
“Just another example of Blakewood incompetence,” he says, the words a low, deliberate blow. “Maybe you should have stuck to planning parties, sweetheart. It seems heavy machinery is a little too complicated for you.”
He clicks off the radio and sets it down gently. The air in the room is thick with humiliation. My brother is sputtering with rage, but he has no response. My family has been publicly shamed, our first day of co-management marred by a failure that will cost us hundreds of thousands of dollars and, more importantly, our credibility.
They all look at me. The men in the room, the men on the docks through the glass, they all see what Marco wants them to see. The useless princess who spoke out of turn, whose suggestion led to disaster. The symbol of her family’s failure.
I say nothing. I don’t defend myself. I don’t rise to the bait. I simply meet his gaze, my expression an unreadable mask of calm. I let him have his victory. I let him think he has won.
Inside, a cold, precise anger begins to burn. It is not the hot, useless rage of my brother. It is the anger of a strategist who has just had a piece taken off the board. An anger that calculates, that plans, that waits.
He thinks this is a simple failure. He thinks this is about a broken machine.
He has no idea that he just handed me a weapon.
