Chapter 2 - THE NOTE SEWN INTO HER COAT
Vittorio never got his gun out.
“Hands.”
One word.
That was all I needed.
Enzo moved first.
Vittorio’s wrist was caught before his fingers cleared his jacket.
Another man removed the pistol.
The silver weapon struck the table.
Elena screamed.
Bruno barked so hard he nearly rolled backward off his tiny paws.
I immediately stepped between the child and every gun in the room.
“Put them away.”
Nobody moved.
I looked at Enzo.
“All of them.”
That got their attention.
Weapons disappeared beneath jackets and into drawers.
Vittorio stared at me.
“Boss, this is insane. You’re believing some street kid?”
Elena flinched.
I turned my head slowly.
Vittorio realized his mistake.
“She has a name.”
His jaw tightened.
“Luca—”
“Her name is Elena.”
He looked toward the door.
Bad instinct.
Enzo saw it too.
I pulled out a chair.
“Sit.”
Vittorio obeyed.
Barely.
Elena had moved beneath the table.
She held Bruno against her chest.
I crouched again.
“Elena.”
Her eyes stayed on Vittorio.
“Is that definitely the man?”
She nodded.
“What did he do?”
“He put Mommy in the blue van.”
Vittorio laughed sharply.
“Half the city has blue vans.”
Elena whispered:
“Your coat smelled like oranges.”
Silence.
Vittorio stopped laughing.
He used Sicilian bergamot cologne.
Always had.
Too much.
I had complained about it for years.
Elena continued.
“You had a cut here.”
She pointed to her left eyebrow.
Vittorio had a fresh healing cut above his.
He got it three nights earlier.
According to him, a bar fight.
I looked at Enzo.
Enzo looked back.
Something ugly passed between us.
Vittorio stood.
“This proves nothing.”
“Sit down.”
“No.”
For fifteen years, Vittorio Santoro had been one of my most trusted men.
He had stood beside me at funerals.
At negotiations.
After bullets.
After betrayals.
He was not family by blood.
In our world, that often made loyalty more meaningful.
Yet a seven-year-old girl looked at him as if he were the devil.
I trusted fear.
Especially a child’s.
Vittorio pointed at Elena.
“Someone put this kid up to it.”
That sentence mattered.
Because I already suspected the same thing.
I turned toward her.
“How did you know where to find me?”
Elena stared at Bruno.
“My mommy told me.”
“When?”
“A long time ago.”
“How long?”
She shrugged.
“Before Christmas.”
It was March.
“What exactly did she say?”
Elena recited it like a prayer.
“If something bad happens and I’m not home by morning, take Bruno and the red envelope and go to Café Nate. Ask for Mr. Moretti. Don’t talk to anybody with a dragon ring.”
Every man in the room became still.
Vittorio wore a black signet ring.
A dragon curled around the stone.
I had given it to five senior captains eight years earlier.
A symbol.
Stupid, in retrospect.
Enzo looked down at his own hand.
No ring.
He had stopped wearing his years ago.
I asked:
“Where is the red envelope?”
Elena touched her coat.
Then frowned.
“I don’t know.”
She checked one pocket.
The other.
Panic arrived instantly.
“I had it.”
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
Her breathing quickened.
“Mommy said I can’t lose it.”
“Elena.”
“I can’t!”
Bruno started whining.
I reached toward her, then stopped.
I had scared grown men unconscious by moving too quickly.
I did not know how to comfort a child.
So I sat on the floor.
Not crouched.
Sat.
Expensive trousers on dirty tile.
My men stared.
I ignored them.
“You’re not in trouble.”
Elena looked at me.
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“Do scary people keep promises?”
That question nearly made Enzo smile.
I didn’t.
“Sometimes better than good people.”
She considered that.
Then allowed me to help search.
The envelope was not in her pockets.
Not in Bruno’s blanket.
Not beneath the table.
Then Elena remembered:
“My coat has a secret.”
She took off the faded pink jacket.
The lining had been stitched recently near the hem.
Crooked stitches.
By hand.
I used a pocketknife to open three threads.
Inside was a flat red envelope wrapped in plastic.
Written across it:
FOR LUCA MORETTI ONLY.
Vittorio’s face changed.
I saw it.
So did Enzo.
Vittorio suddenly moved.
Fast.
Not toward his gun.
Toward the envelope.
Enzo drove him back into the chair.
I opened the letter.
Mr. Moretti,
My name is Claire O’Shea.
If Elena has brought this to you, I have either been taken or I am dead.
I stopped breathing for a second.
I continued.
You do not know me personally, but I know enough about you to believe you have one rule that still means something:
Children are never leverage.
I looked toward Elena.
She was petting Bruno.
Claire continued.
For eighteen months, I have worked as an outside bookkeeper for three companies that ultimately answer to men carrying your name.
I discovered payments I was not supposed to notice.
Payments to families after their businesses burned.
Property transfers signed under pressure.
Collections from shop owners who believe the orders came directly from you.
I do not know whether you authorized them.
But I know Vittorio Santoro did.
Vittorio cursed.
I raised one finger.
He stopped.
The letter continued.
Three weeks ago, I found records showing he has been creating debts in your name, collecting them, and keeping most of the money.
When I asked questions, he came to my apartment.
He smiled at Elena.
Then he told me accidents happen to children whose mothers are careless.
My vision narrowed.
No one spoke.
If he has taken me, do not trust the police contact named Garvey.
Do not trust anyone wearing the dragon ring.
Go to Warehouse 19 near Mercer Street.
Locker C-14.
The key is inside Bruno’s collar.
I looked at the puppy.
Elena said proudly:
“Mommy said Bruno has an important job.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Then the final lines:
Please do not keep my daughter in your world.
Save me if you can.
If you cannot, take Elena somewhere safe and tell her I did not leave her.
She will offer you Bruno because she thinks nobody does anything without being paid.
Please give him back.
He is the only thing she has left from home.
I folded the letter.
Carefully.
Then looked at Elena.
“You’re keeping the dog.”
Her eyes widened.
“But I have to pay you.”
“No.”
“Mommy said people like you are expensive.”
Enzo turned away to hide a smile.
I looked at the tiny black puppy.
He had somehow fallen asleep beside a stack of illegal cash.
“No payment.”
Elena became suspicious.
“Then why are you helping?”
I thought about the letter.
Children are never leverage.
It had been my rule.
Apparently one of my own men had broken it repeatedly while using my name.
“Because your mother asked.”
Elena frowned.
“That’s not money.”
“No.”
For the first time, I understood how sad it was that she found that confusing.
Behind me Vittorio said:
“You’re going to tear everything apart over one woman?”
I turned.
“No.”
His face relaxed slightly.
Then I finished:
“I’m going to tear everything apart because you made a seven-year-old believe she had to buy her mother’s life with a puppy.”
His face went pale.
I handed Enzo the letter.
“Warehouse 19.”
Vittorio shouted:
“It’s a trap!”
I looked at him.
“You should hope it is.”
We left Elena with the café owner’s wife, Rosa, who had raised four children and frightened me more than most armed men.
Elena refused to release my sleeve.
“You’re coming back?”
“Yes.”
“With Mommy?”
My chest tightened.
“I’m going to try.”
She looked at me for several seconds.
Then:
“Don’t let the orange man go.”
Enzo laughed once.
Vittorio did not.
Neither did I.
Because before walking out, I removed Bruno’s collar.
Hidden beneath the leather was a tiny brass key.
Stamped:
C-14.
Claire O’Shea had prepared for this.
May you like
Which meant she knew something far worse was coming.
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