Chapter 4 - THE BROTHER WHO HAD TAKEN THE WRONG MONEY
Luca Falcone arrived at their apartment on Sunday afternoon.
Giana was studying pharmacology at the kitchen table when she heard him knocking.
Her older brother was twenty-nine.
He had their father's dark hair, their mother's eyes, and a talent for appearing charming even when he'd spent three nights making terrible decisions.
He wore a leather jacket with a broken zipper and carried a grocery bag.
“Look what I brought.”
Giana glanced inside.
Bread.
Milk.
Coffee.
Two cartons of eggs.
Her stomach tightened.
“Where did you get the money?”
Luca looked offended.
“Good afternoon to you too.”
“Luca.”
He sighed.
“Work.”
“What work?”
“Warehouse contracting.”
“For whom?”
He avoided her eyes.
That was when Giana knew.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
She stood.
“Don't.”
Luca placed the bag on the counter.
Their mother emerged from the bedroom.
“What's happening?”
“Nothing,” Luca said quickly.
Giana stared at him.
“Why are you suddenly bringing groceries after asking me for money every week?”
Luca's expression hardened.
“Because I thought I should finally help.”
“Then tell me where the money came from.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he looked toward Lucia.
“Mom, can you give us a minute?”
Lucia folded her arms.
“Absolutely not.”
Apparently, the entire Falcone family had inherited the same stubbornness.
Luca sat.
Rubbed his face.
Then whispered:
“Enzo Rinaldi contacted me.”
Giana felt the blood drain from her face.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“He knew I was looking for more contracting work.”
“What did he offer?”
“A short-term position coordinating deliveries.”
Giana stared.
“Did you take it?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Six thousand up front.”
Lucia slowly sat down.
Giana gripped the table.
“Why would Enzo Rinaldi pay you six thousand dollars in advance?”
Luca looked at his hands.
“He wanted me to tell him whether either of you had been contacted about Dad.”
Silence.
Giana could hear the refrigerator humming.
The traffic outside.
Her mother's breathing.
She looked at her brother.
“You told him?”
Luca swallowed.
“I told him nobody had contacted us.”
“Did you tell him about Nonna's tin?”
“No.”
“Did you even know what was inside?”
“No.”
Giana closed her eyes.
Her own brother had been paid to report on their family.
And he had accepted.
Luca leaned forward.
“Giana, I didn't know about the money Dad was investigating.”
“I thought Enzo was trying to prevent some journalist from digging up the old accusations.”
“Then why didn't you tell us?”
He looked down.
“Because I needed the advance.”
“For what?”
He hesitated.
“Debt.”
Giana felt sick.
Luca had always been vague about his finances.
A failed business partnership.
Vehicle repairs.
Short-term loans.
Emergency expenses that somehow arrived every month.
Now she understood why.
He had developed a gambling problem.
Not one dramatic night at a casino.
Months of betting, hiding losses, borrowing money, and believing the next wager would repair the previous one.
His contracting income had become unreliable.
Then Enzo offered six thousand dollars.
Luca took it.
He used part to pay overdue expenses and part to cover debts he'd been too ashamed to admit existed.
The rest was gone before he'd told his family.
Giana stared at him.
“Did you ever think about what Enzo wanted?”
Luca's eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I told myself he didn't want anything important.”
She laughed bitterly.
“That's what people say when they don't want to ask.”
Lucia reached for her son's hand.
“Luca.”
He began crying.
Not loudly.
Not theatrically.
He simply lowered his head and admitted he'd been lying for months.
Giana wanted to comfort him.
She also wanted to scream.
Their mother was sick.
Their rent was overdue.
She was working double shifts while trying to finish nursing school.
And her brother had taken money from a man connected to the destruction of their father's reputation.
“I love you,” Giana said.
Luca looked up.
“But I'm not paying your gambling debts.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“And you're not getting access to Mom's accounts.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
“You need help.”
“I know.”
Giana looked at him.
“Not from Enzo.”
For the first time, Luca almost smiled.
“No.”
“Definitely not from Enzo.”
The following day, Luca met with an independent attorney and disclosed what Enzo had asked him to do.
He preserved the messages and payment records.
He also began seeking treatment and support for his gambling problem.
It was not a miraculous transformation.
He still had debts.
He still had a damaged relationship with his sister.
He still had to learn how to tell the truth before desperation made dishonesty feel convenient.
But he had begun.
Giana did not forgive him immediately.
She helped him identify legitimate resources.
Then she returned to her own responsibilities.
For once, helping family did not mean taking responsibility for every mistake a family member had made.
Meanwhile, the forensic review of the maritime fund uncovered a significant lead.
Seabright Consulting had received payments for administrative services over several years.
But investigators found that some invoices lacked the supporting documentation expected for legitimate services.
The corporate ownership records linked Seabright to a business associate of Enzo Rinaldi.
Further examination identified financial connections between Seabright and companies controlled by Enzo.
Then came another discovery.
A month before Pietro Falcone's death, the fund's bank had received a request to freeze certain payments pending a review.
The request was accompanied by a letter from Pietro.
It stated that he had discovered transactions inconsistent with the fund's stated purpose and wanted independent oversight.
The bank had not completed the review before Pietro died.
After his death, a second letter arrived.
Supposedly withdrawing his allegations.
It carried Pietro's signature.
But the independent document examiner identified material differences between that signature and several verified examples of Pietro's handwriting.
That did not establish who created the document.
It raised a serious question about whether the withdrawal had been genuine.
Sergio read the report in silence.
Then called Mara.
“Does Giana's attorney have this?”
“Not yet. We need to coordinate disclosure appropriately.”
“Make sure they know the evidence exists and follow the proper process.”
He paused.
Then asked:
“Can we establish what happened to Pietro's car?”
Mara's voice became careful.
“The historical collision file is being reviewed. We have no reliable basis yet to conclude the crash was deliberately caused.”
Sergio closed his eyes.
He wanted a villain he could blame for every part of Giana's suffering.
Someone he could identify.
Confront.
Destroy.
But the available evidence did not entitle him to invent an answer.
“Then don't speculate,” he said.
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“Find out what can actually be established.”
And for the first time, Sergio Bianke began to understand that wanting justice did not give him permission to replace one convenient story with another.
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