Chapter 4 - THE RECIPE BOOK WITH NO RECIPES
Luca Rossi was sitting in Gabriel's usual booth.
That was deliberate.
He wore a navy suit.
Perfect hair.
Easy smile.
The kind of man who looked friendly enough to sell you something and dangerous enough to make you regret buying it.
“Tessa.”
I stopped.
We had never met.
“How do you know my name?”
“Everybody knows your name now.”
Not comforting.
Richard hovered nearby.
Luca smiled.
“Coffee?”
“No.”
“Sit.”
“No.”
His smile barely changed.
“You've been spending time with my uncle.”
“I serve him food.”
“And Gabriel?”
“He also eats.”
Luca laughed.
“I like you.”
“I'll recover.”
His eyes sharpened.
There.
The smile was costume.
“Matteo Cosenza was a confused old man.”
My pulse jumped.
I kept my face still.
“Who?”
“Good.”
He nodded approvingly.
“Stay with that answer.”
I stared.
“Is this where you threaten me?”
Luca's smile returned.
“No.”
He stood.
“This is where I advise you.”
He placed cash beneath an untouched cup.
“Old families survive because outsiders know when not to become historians.”
He walked past me.
Then stopped.
“Ask Gabriel what happened to the last person who helped him clean the family books.”
He left.
I stood still.
Richard came closer.
“What did he want?”
“Coffee.”
“He didn't drink it.”
“Very observant.”
That night, I brought Matteo's notebook to my apartment table.
Gabriel arrived twenty minutes later with a contract.
Alone.
No bodyguards.
I noticed.
“Bad idea.”
“What?”
“Coming alone.”
“You asked for no intimidation.”
“I asked for no surveillance.”
“Bodyguards felt adjacent.”
I almost smiled.
He placed the contract down.
The rate made me blink.
“This is too much.”
“It is market-based.”
“For translating Sicilian insults?”
“For archive reconstruction involving specialized dialect and historical materials.”
“Who wrote that?”
“Lawyer.”
“Of course.”
I read everything.
No trap.
No confidentiality clause preventing me from reporting crimes.
That surprised me.
“You added this.”
“Yes.”
A paragraph explicitly stated nothing in the agreement restricted cooperation with law enforcement.
“Matteo's rule?”
Gabriel nodded.
Truth outside the family room.
I signed.
Then opened the notebook.
We began with recipes.
Matteo had used ingredients as categories.
Olives meant property.
Flour meant cash.
Anchovies meant information.
Wine meant political payments.
Garlic meant threats.
Salvatore joined by video call.
He complained about the camera angle for ten minutes.
Then became useful.
Page by page, numbers became transactions.
Dates matched real events.
A warehouse fire.
A union dispute.
A restaurant acquisition.
A city zoning vote.
Then one recipe appeared repeatedly.
Pane nero.
Black bread.
Salvatore went silent.
“What?”
He leaned closer to the screen.
“Matteo hated black bread.”
“So?”
“He would never write this recipe.”
Gabriel looked at the page.
“Code.”
We decoded it.
BLACK BREAD was not an account.
It was a person.
Initials appeared beside it.
L.R.
Luca Rossi.
I looked at Gabriel.
His face had gone cold.
Entries continued through the year Matteo died.
Recent.
Very recent.
“This proves Luca is moving money?”
“Not alone.”
Gabriel pointed.
Another symbol.
A small crown.
Salvatore swore.
“What?”
Gabriel looked at him.
“Father?”
Salvatore's face had gone pale.
“The crown was Enzo's code for judges.”
My stomach dropped.
“Judges?”
“Influence.”
Gabriel studied the page.
“Names?”
No names.
Only dates.
Payments.
Court decisions.
Business disputes.
The pattern was enough to frighten all three of us.
Then I found writing inside the back cover.
Not code.
English.
Tessa,
If you are reading this with Salvatore, he finally learned to listen.
Salvatore muttered:
“Still insulting me.”
I continued.
If you are reading this with Gabriel, ask whether he brought guards.
Gabriel stared.
I looked toward the door.
“No.”
I smiled slightly.
“Apparently you passed something.”
Salvatore looked offended.
The note continued.
Do not let either man turn evidence into a private family correction.
The Rossi disease is believing shame should remain indoors.
Salvatore sighed.
“Dead and still annoying.”
Underneath was one final instruction.
There is a second book.
I stopped.
Gabriel leaned closer.
Where?
I read.
Where Salvatore first learned hunger.
Salvatore's face changed completely.
“Palermo.”
Gabriel frowned.
“What place?”
Salvatore looked distant.
“A bakery.”
“Still there?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
The old man stared at the screen.
“Matteo bought the building.”
Of course he did.
Gabriel leaned back.
“When?”
“Before he disappeared.”
I closed the notebook.
“So the evidence is in Sicily?”
Salvatore shook his head.
“No.”
“Then where?”
He smiled sadly.
“The bakery isn't in Palermo anymore.”
I waited.
May you like
Salvatore looked directly at me.
“It's in Brooklyn.”
