Chapter 12 - The Rotten Seal
The rain off Lake Michigan was icy, lashing sideways against the towering steel stacks of shipping containers at the eastern docks. Armed men in dark slickers bearing the Moretti crest maintained a wide perimeter around Dock 4, their assault rifles held at low ready.
Mateo hurried toward our vehicle the moment Luca and I stepped onto the wet tarmac.
"Status?" I demanded over the roar of the wind.
"Container is isolated," Mateo said, leading us toward Berth 12 where a single matte-black shipping container sat beneath the floodlights. "We ran thermal imaging through the steel walls. No biological signatures inside—no people, no livestock. But there's a heavy lead shielding along the central compartment that thermals can't penetrate."
"Lead shielding," Luca mused, his jaw set in a rigid line. "Either contraband narcotics, unregistered weapons... or explosives."
"Get the bomb-disposal scanner," I ordered Mateo. "And keep the fire suppression team on standby."
I approached the heavy double doors of the container, pulling a handheld tactical mirror and fiber-optic scope from my utility pouch. Luca moved with me, stepping slightly ahead, his body naturally positioning itself between me and the threshold.
"Luca," I said softly, touching his forearm. "I need to check the hinges for tripwires."
He paused, looked at me, and nodded, stepping aside just enough to allow me space while keeping his gun drawn and aimed at the seam of the doors.
I knelt in the puddle, oblivious to the water soaking through the knees of my dark trousers. Slipping the thin optical probe into the rubber gasket between the doors, I watched the small monitor attached to my wrist. The infrared display showed no tension wires, no magnetic switches, and no mercury tilts.
"Door is clean," I confirmed, standing up. "Whatever is inside, it's sealed for delivery, not wired as an immediate trap."
Mateo and another guard stepped forward with heavy hydraulic cutters. With a loud, mechanical crack, they snapped the secondary customs seal and hauled the heavy steel lever down.
The heavy door groaned open, releasing a blast of frigid, chemically preserved air.
Inside, lined up on pallets, were crates stamped with standard industrial machine parts. But in the center of the floor sat a solitary crate, carved not from plywood, but from dark European walnut.
Upon its lid, pressed into crimson wax, was an emblem that made Luca’s breath catch sharply in his throat.
It was an imperial crowned serpent wrapped around a broken dagger.
"The Bellandi crest," Luca whispered, his tone cold enough to freeze the damp lake air. "The family my father wiped out twenty-five years ago."
May you like
I approached the crate, noticing a white envelope resting beneath the wax seal. Written in elegant, vintage calligraphy across the front was a single name:
*Elena Moretti.*
