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Chapter 10 - Chapter Ten: The Ripple Effect

There's something about a phone ringing in the middle of the night that stirs an old kind of fear. Not fear like the movies more like the quiet dread that something, somewhere, is starting to go wrong.

I answered on the second ring. Dino's voice was tight.

"Someone took a bat to the back door."

I was already putting on pants. "Anything missing?"

"No. Just the door. Couple deep cracks. Splinters everywhere. Like they wanted to send a message, not get in."

I sat down to tie my boots. "Anyone see it?"

"Only thing we got is a blurry outline on the camera. Hoodie. No face. Moved like he knew what not to trigger."

That made me pause. "You copy the footage?"

"Already on a VHS."

Old-school. Smart. We hung up, and I took the long way to The Boxcar. Not because I was scared, but because I wanted to think.

When I got there, Dino handed me a coffee before I even said hello. The tape was already queued up on the old player.

"Here. Right here. Watch this."

The figure moved like a shadow. No wasted energy. In and out. Just long enough to be seen, but not identified.

"That's not random," I muttered.

"What do you think it means?"

"I think someone's getting comfortable testing us. First the Crown Vic. Now this."

"You think it's the same guy?"

"I think it's worse than that. I think it's organized."

Sally called later that day. Straight to the point.

"We got a problem."

"Define it."

"Guy named Carlo Bianchi. Used to work contracts for the city. Got bounced after a fraud investigation but didn't serve time. Word is he's trying to muscle in on private sanitation."

"Newark?"

"All of North Jersey. And he's not local. He's bringing out-of-towners with deep pockets."

"What's he want?"

"What everybody wants. Territory."

"You want me to lean?"

"No. Not yet. I want you to talk. See what flavor this guy is before we tip the scale."

Carlo looked like a banker with a coke habit. Too well groomed. The kind of guy who practiced his smirk in the mirror.

We met in a restaurant near the river, the kind of place where people pretended to be casual while watching you chew.

"Mr. DeSantis," he said, standing up like we were old friends. "I've heard interesting things."

"Let's keep them interesting."

We sat. No menus. He waved the waiter off.

"Let's be honest," he said. "You've got a good thing going. I'm not here to ruin it. I'm here to scale it."

"You're here to carve out a slice."

"Only if the pie is big enough."

"That depends. You planning to work with the locals or over them?"

He smiled. "With. For now."

I leaned in slightly. "There's no 'for now' with guys like me. You either sit at the table or you get locked out of the building."

His face twitched just a bit. Then smoothed over.

"Noted."

Back at the gym, Hooks had me working double rounds. The sweat was good for clarity. The gloves reminded me I was still flesh and bone.

"You're tighter today," he said, fixing my stance. "Trouble at home?"

"Not unless you count a bat through my back door."

"Then punch harder."

We moved into drills. Hooks didn't waste time with pep talks. He gave you tools or he gave you bruises.

Afterward, I stayed behind to hit the bag. Alone.

"You're gonna break your hands if you keep throwing like that," a voice said behind me.

It was a woman. Mid-thirties. Athletic. Short ponytail.

"You a trainer?"

"I'm a paramedic. I patch up idiots like you."

"Good to know."

She watched me wrap my hands tighter.

"You fight like you've got something to prove."

"Don't we all?"

She shrugged and left.

I watched her go. Then punched the bag again.

Back at The Boxcar, the place was unusually full. Dino leaned over the bar.

"You expecting company?"

"Not this much."

One of the new faces had a leather coat too clean for the weather. Another was asking too many questions about how often cops showed up.

"Get their plates," I said. "And make sure we move the stash out of the safe tonight."

"All of it?"

"Yeah. Split it between the storage and my cousin's garage."

The next day, that same guy with the clean leather jacket came back. Didn't order anything. Just stood at the bar, sipping water.

"You lost?" Dino asked.

"Nope. Just observing."

"Well, we don't do auditions."

"Shame. You got the kind of place that might need extra eyes."

I came up behind him and set a coaster down hard.

"We got eyes. We just don't need the blinking kind."

He didn't turn. Just smirked. "Cool. See you around."

He left, and I watched the reflection of his car from the window. Same Crown Vic.

I started sleeping in shifts. Light naps. One eye open. I cleaned my weapons twice a day and logged every trade through GhostLine by hand in a separate notebook. Not just for accuracy. For control.

The routine became armor.

GhostLine pinged a new trade mirror. Different wallet this time. But same pattern. Same transactions, down to the second.

Whoever it was, they had full visibility. They weren't just watching. They were recording.

I set up a fail-safe. A Trojan trade. If they followed it, the code would trigger a silent alarm. A digital fingerprint.

The only question now was whether they'd bite.

I left the ThinkPad humming while I paced. Too many moving pieces. A car parked too long. A stranger who didn't drink. A tech ghost copying every financial move I made.

This wasn't just about territory anymore. It was about surveillance. Someone was tracking me across physical and digital space.

So I called a guy in Montclair. Renzo. Hacker, off-the-grid, slept in a warehouse with no address. I'd done him a favor once saved his cousin from being rolled by a fake charity scam.

"Ade. Long time."

"I need a second pair of eyes. Digital ones. Someone's tracking me through wallet mimicry."

"That's a first. You got logs?"

"I'll bring them. Old format. IBM."

"Love the retro vibe. Come tomorrow. Midnight."

I hung up. Tomorrow, I'd bring him the drive. But tonight, I'd sleep light. I had a feeling that shadow that cracked our door might try to do more than knock next time.

Snapshot – Week Eight

Mob Etiquette: 16

Charisma: 17

Street Smarts: 12

Reputation: 22

Manipulation: 17

Combat Awareness: 9

Traits:

Quiet Credibility

Controlled Aggression

Precision Pressure

Foundation

Earner's Instinct

Early Investor

Community Cred

Soft Power

Ghost Mentor

Tactical Patience

Instinctive Threat Response

Digital Fingerprint Trap

Ventures:

GhostLine (42%)

The Boxcar (27%)

Studio Project (Final mixing)

Garbage Contract (Research phase)

Studio Referral: Cassie

Unknown Observer (Luring attempt active)

Carlo Bianchi Contact (Pending threat assessment)

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