Page 69 of Code Name: Grit

“Your silence won’t help you,” he said, circling my chair. “We know you’re working with Dante Castellano, yourbrother. We also know you’ve been investigating the Belcastros’ operations. What we don’t know is why Cassio Belcastro appears unusually interested in your safety.”

So that was it. They’d noticed the Belcastros’ protective measures and drawn conclusions. I needed to be cautious—any reaction could reveal too much.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my voice hoarse from the chloroform. “I’m a security consultant. My firm was hired to assess vulnerabilities at the shipping terminal.”

Giovanni laughed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. “A very convenient cover story. But it doesn’t explain why the Belcastros were warned about our interest in you.” He leaned closer. “Or why you look so much like Teresa Belcastro, Cassio’s mother.”

My heart stuttered, but I kept my expression neutral. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Take her to the secure room,” Giovanni ordered abruptly. “Let her think about her situation.”

Two men hauled me up and marched me down a corridor into what had once been an office. The room was small, with a single, narrow window too high and small for escape. A metal chair bolted to the floor sat in the center, but they didn’t restrain me to it. The door locked with an ominous click behind them.

I immediately began a systematic assessment of my surroundings. The window: reinforced glass, approximately eight by twelve inches, positioned almost six feet up the wall, maybe a little less. The door: solid metal with industrial hinges on the outside, keypad lock. The walls: poured concrete with no visible weak points. The floor: continuous concrete slab with no access points.

Despite the grim assessment, I forced myself to remain calm. Panic would only cloud my judgment. Instead, I pressed my ear to the door, straining to hear their conversations.

“It’s too risky. Rafael is already gonna be pissed,” one voice argued. I recognized it as one of the men from the SUV.

“Rafael doesn’t understand what’s at stake,” Giovanni responded. “If she’s connected to Cassio, she’s leverage we can use. The territories?—”

“You were ordered not to take her,” another voice interrupted. “When Rafael finds out, he’ll kill you himself.”

“My uncle is too cautious,” Giovanni snapped. “We’re losing ground every day to the Belcastros. If she’s Cassio’s daughter?—”

“That’s a big if, and you know it,” the first voice countered. “We have no proof, just a resemblance and suspicious behavior.”

Their voices moved away, becoming indistinct. I filed away what I’d heard. Giovanni had acted against Rafael’s orders. The organization was divided. This wasn’t a sanctioned Patriarca operation—it was Giovanni’s personal vendetta.

I moved to the window, standing on tiptoes to peer out. The compound was surrounded by forest on three sides, with a service road leading away to the north. Two black SUVs were parked in the loading bay, plus a black Escalade I recognized as the same vehicle Giovanni had arrived in during our surveillance operations.

I alternated between listening at the door and resting to conserve energy. Escape now would be nearly impossible, and even if I managed it, I doubted I’d be able to navigate my way to safety. Better to wait, gather intelligence, and look for an opportunity.

When the door finally opened again, Giovanni entered alone. He carried a bottle of water, which he tossed to me. I caught it, checking the seal before opening it.

“Smart,” he commented. “Trust no one.”

I took a sip, watching him over the bottle.

“I want to know about your relationship with Cassio Belcastro,” he said bluntly.

“I told you I don’t know him,” I replied. “I was hired to assess security at the terminal.”

“By O’Roarke. But why you specifically?” He circled me like a predator. “Your background is…suspiciously unavailable. As if someone erased you.”

I remained silent, letting him talk. The more he revealed about what they knew or suspected, the better I could navigate this situation.

“My father was murdered in 1986,” he continued, his tone shifting. “Shot five times outside his favorite restaurant in Queens. Do you know who ordered that hit?”

“I didn’t even exist then,” I said truthfully, though at this point, I knew the story well.

“Cassio Belcastro,” Giovanni spat the name. “He was moving up the ranks, wanted to make his mark. My father was the perfect target—respected, well-liked, connected.”

I kept my expression neutral, though I knew there had never been enough evidence to prove Cassio’s involvement. Giovanni’s accusation was based on suspicion and rumor, not fact.

“I don’t see what that has to do with me,” I said.

He stepped closer, studying my face with unsettling intensity. “You have his eyes. Did you know that? The shape, the color. Teresa’s bone structure, but Cassio’s eyes.”

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