Chapter 7 - THE SON WHO REFUSED THE EMPIRE
The audit began Monday.
Independent firm.
Outside counsel.
No Rossi employees allowed to control document intake.
Salvatore hated every second.
“This woman asked for my tax returns.”
“Good,” I said.
“She is twenty-nine.”
“Still good.”
“She wears sneakers.”
“Probably why she's efficient.”
Gabriel rubbed his forehead.
His father glared at me.
“You enjoy this.”
“Immensely.”
The findings were worse than expected.
Luca had routed millions through legitimate Rossi subsidiaries.
Not all stolen.
Some used to maintain networks of influence.
Campaign contributions hidden behind intermediaries.
Consulting retainers that purchased access.
Properties transferred at suspicious prices.
Enough to trigger multiple investigations.
Gabriel called a family meeting.
Salvatore insisted I attend.
I refused.
“You're family to Matteo's record.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“Why does everyone say no now?”
“Personal growth.”
The meeting happened without me.
Three hours later, Gabriel came to Ilvento.
Not Thursday.
No reservation.
He sat at the bar.
I poured coffee.
“What happened?”
“My father stepped down.”
I froze.
“From?”
“Everything operational.”
“Because of the audit?”
“Because he realized he couldn't claim Luca's corruption was only Luca's problem.”
That surprised me.
Gabriel continued.
“For years, Father tolerated systems where no one asked questions as long as loyalty appeared intact.”
Exactly Matteo's accusation.
“What about you?”
“I take temporary control of the legitimate companies.”
“And the rest?”
“Lawyers.”
“That's vague.”
“Intentionally.”
I accepted that.
“What did Luca do?”
“Denied everything.”
“Of course.”
“He accused me of destroying the family to impress you.”
I almost choked.
“What?”
Gabriel smiled without humor.
“He overestimates my charm.”
“Considerably.”
Then he became serious.
“Tomorrow we're turning over the second notebook.”
“To investigators?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“And after?”
“I don't know.”
For the first time, Gabriel Rossi looked genuinely unsure.
Not afraid.
Uncertain.
Maybe worse for a man raised to control rooms.
“What do you want?”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“Not what Salvatore expects.”
I leaned against the bar.
“Not what Matteo would've wanted.”
“What do you want?”
Gabriel looked toward Ilvento's dark windows.
“Out.”
The word surprised me.
“Out of what?”
“The mythology.”
He gave a tired laugh.
“My grandfather built power because he was poor and afraid.”
“My father expanded it because he thought fear was respect.”
“Enzo corrupted it because he thought money made fear permanent.”
“Luca modernized it.”
He looked at me.
“And everyone keeps calling that inheritance.”
I said nothing.
“I want companies that don't require bodyguards to explain why they're successful.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“In my family, apparently radical.”
I smiled.
Then Gabriel asked:
“What do you want?”
The question caught me.
“To pay my debt.”
“Soon.”
“Not your money.”
“Your contract.”
“Good correction.”
I thought.
“I want my own place someday.”
“A restaurant?”
“Maybe.”
“What kind?”
“Small.”
He looked amused.
“After Ilvento?”
“Especially after Ilvento.”
I imagined it.
Twenty tables.
Food that didn't require tweezers.
Matteo's panelle.
My mother's roast chicken.
Old people allowed to complain without being feared.
“No eight-hundred-dollar menus.”
“Tragic.”
“Customers pay before threatening staff.”
Gabriel smiled.
“I would eat there.”
“You'd wait for a table.”
His smile widened.
Then his phone buzzed.
He read the screen.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“Luca's gone.”
My stomach tightened.
“Gone where?”
“No one knows.”
“Dangerous?”
“Potentially.”
I expected Gabriel to reach for a weapon.
Call men.
Do something cinematic.
Instead, he dialed his attorney.
“Notify the investigators.”
I watched him.
He ended the call.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
“I expected something more mafia.”
He looked offended.
“I am trying very hard to disappoint you.”
“You're succeeding.”
That night, Luca did not flee the country.
He went on television.
A financial-news network.
Live.
He accused Gabriel of fabricating the audit to seize control of Rossi Holdings.
He called Salvatore mentally unfit.
Then he mentioned me.
“A waitress with access to a confused old man's personal papers.”
My photograph appeared.
I stopped breathing.
Richard turned up the volume.
Luca continued:
“The so-called evidence comes from a deceased bookkeeper with documented hostility toward my family.”
My anger rose.
Matteo reduced to hostile bookkeeper.
The host asked whether law enforcement had contacted him.
Luca smiled.
“I have nothing to hide.”
Twenty minutes later, federal agents arrested him leaving the studio.
Ilvento erupted.
Someone applauded.
Richard shushed them.
I stared at the television.
Gabriel texted one sentence.
May you like
Matteo would've laughed.
He was right.
