Chapter 2 - THE NAME THAT SILENCED THE DON
I did not sleep.
At seven, I called in sick.
Richard shouted for ninety seconds.
Then remembered who had written an address on my check the night before and suddenly became supportive of employee wellness.
At ten forty-eight, I stood outside a limestone townhouse on East Seventy-Third Street.
No mansion.
No gates.
No line of black SUVs.
Just an expensive Manhattan building with two discreet security cameras and a brass door knocker.
I considered leaving.
The door opened before I decided.
Gabriel stood there.
No suit jacket.
Dark sweater.
No tie.
“You came.”
“I might still leave.”
“That's becoming clear.”
I held up the notebook.
His expression changed.
“What is that?”
“Where's your father?”
“Upstairs.”
“I need to speak to him alone.”
Gabriel's face became unreadable.
“No.”
I almost laughed.
“Then I'm leaving.”
“Tessa.”
“Goodbye.”
I turned.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
Gabriel studied me.
“What did Matteo tell you about me?”
Enough.
I faced him.
“Nothing flattering.”
His jaw tightened.
“So he did leave something.”
“Move.”
Instead of arguing, Gabriel stepped aside.
That worried me more.
Salvatore sat in a sunlit breakfast room overlooking a tiny courtyard.
He wore a wool cardigan.
Without the restaurant, bodyguards, and cane striking marble, he almost looked ordinary.
Then his eyes found the notebook.
He stood so quickly his chair moved backward.
“Where did you get that?”
“Mr. Cosenza.”
His voice broke.
“Let me see.”
“No.”
Salvatore stared.
I was beginning to suspect saying no to mafia bosses was going to shorten my life.
“I need answers first.”
His eyes sharpened.
“About?”
“Who was Matteo Cosenza?”
Silence.
Salvatore looked toward the doorway.
Gabriel had remained outside.
Good.
Finally:
“My brother.”
I frowned.
“Biological?”
“No.”
Salvatore sat again.
“We were boys together.”
Palermo.
Postwar poverty.
Two families sharing one courtyard.
Salvatore's mother fed Matteo after his own mother died.
They slept in the same room some winters.
Stole oranges together.
Fought together.
Came to America within months of each other.
“Matteo was not mafia.”
Salvatore said that firmly.
“He hated violence.”
“Yet he worked for you.”
“Numbers.”
Salvatore tapped the table.
“He understood numbers better than anyone.”
When the Rossi businesses expanded, Matteo became the quiet man who reviewed books no one else wanted to read.
He found errors.
Then theft.
“He accused someone.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Salvatore looked toward the door again.
“My younger brother.”
“Gabriel's uncle?”
“Enzo.”
I had heard the name.
Enzo Rossi died seventeen years earlier in a boating accident.
“He stole from you?”
“More than money.”
Salvatore's expression darkened.
“Information.”
Contracts.
Routes.
Locations.
Enough to cause wars Salvatore thought were random.
Enough to make enemies look responsible for betrayals committed internally.
“Matteo showed me evidence.”
“And?”
Salvatore looked away.
“I didn't believe him.”
That answer surprised me.
“Why?”
“Enzo was blood.”
There it was.
The oldest excuse in human history.
“What happened to Matteo?”
“He disappeared.”
“You thought he ran.”
“I thought he stole.”
My stomach tightened.
“You accused him?”
“Yes.”
“Publicly?”
Salvatore's face tightened.
“Yes.”
Suddenly I understood Mr. Cosenza's bitterness whenever television crime stories appeared.
Men love loyalty most when asking someone else to prove it.
He'd said that once while chopping onions.
“What changed?”
“Years later, I discovered Matteo had been right.”
“After Enzo died?”
“Yes.”
Salvatore's hands trembled slightly.
“I searched.”
“For Matteo?”
“Everywhere.”
“And he lived in Queens?”
“Brooklyn first.”
“Then Manhattan.”
I almost smiled.
Salvatore did not.
“I deserved not to find him.”
Maybe.
I placed the notebook on the table.
Not within reach.
“He left this.”
Salvatore stared.
“Recipes?”
“At first.”
“And after?”
I opened to the numbers.
His face drained.
“Madonna.”
“What?”
He looked closer.
“These are accounts.”
I frowned.
“They're recipes.”
“No.”
He pointed.
“Olives. Flour. Anchovy. Those were Matteo's old coding words.”
Of course they were.
A man hiding financial records inside food.
Salvatore looked toward the doorway.
“Gabriel!”
I grabbed the notebook.
“No.”
He stared.
I pulled Matteo's note from my bag.
“Read.”
Salvatore did.
Do not trust the man sitting to his right.
His face changed.
He looked toward the doorway.
May you like
Gabriel stood there.
And suddenly the room felt very different.
