Chapter 4 - THE ENEMY AT THE TABLE
Raffaele Ferraro agreed to meet us because I asked.
Not Dante.
Me.
That irritated Dante more than he wanted to admit.
“He refused six messages from me.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have spent fifteen years threatening his docks.”
“I threatened two.”
“How restrained.”
His mouth tightened.
We sat in the back of a small café overlooking Palermo’s harbor.
Raffaele arrived without an army.
One driver remained outside.
The man himself walked with a cane.
Silver hair.
Dark coat.
Calm eyes.
Exactly like the photograph.
He looked at Dante first.
Then at me.
“Elena’s daughter.”
Dante went very still.
“You know her?”
“I knew of her.”
Raffaele sat.
“You have Elena’s eyes.”
I didn’t know whether that comforted or frightened me.
Dante placed the photograph on the table.
“My father trusted you.”
Raffaele looked at it.
“He did.”
“You let me believe you killed him.”
“No.”
Raffaele’s voice remained mild.
“You decided that.”
“My uncle gave me evidence.”
“Your uncle gave you grief shaped like evidence.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
I touched his wrist under the table.
Not affection.
A warning.
He glanced at my hand.
Then at me.
He stayed seated.
Progress.
“What was the red book?” I asked.
Raffaele looked at Dante.
“You haven’t told her?”
“I don’t know.”
That surprised him.
Then he nodded.
“Good.”
Dante’s patience thinned.
“Raffaele.”
“The red book was Elena’s private accounting record.”
“My mother kept two sets of books?”
“She kept the official records and a handwritten ledger no one knew about.”
“What was inside?”
“Payments Lorenzo routed through Valenti Shipping.”
“Drugs?” I asked.
Raffaele shook his head.
“Weapons.”
Dante’s expression turned cold.
“Without my father’s approval?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
Raffaele leaned back.
“Salvatore discovered it and made a mistake.”
“What?”
“He tried to control it rather than expose it.”
Dante looked sick.
“My father joined him.”
“For six months.”
“Why?”
“To identify buyers.”
I frowned.
“He was investigating his own brother?”
“Yes.”
Raffaele looked at Dante.
“Your father wanted out.”
“Out of what?”
“Most of it.”
The answer seemed to disturb Dante more than criminal accusations would have.
“Salvatore knew the family could not become legitimate overnight. But he wanted the ports clean. Restaurants clean. No weapons. No narcotics. No girls.”
I noticed the last word.
So did Dante.
His face hardened.
“Lorenzo disagreed.”
“Lorenzo believed weakness invited war.”
“And the fire?”
“Elena discovered a shipment scheduled through Warehouse Seven.”
My scarless cheek suddenly felt hot.
“Arms?”
“Military rifles.”
“Where were they going?”
Raffaele looked toward the harbor.
“To men whose names would have destroyed more than Lorenzo.”
“Politicians?” I asked.
“Among others.”
Dante’s voice was quiet.
“My father was turning evidence over to you.”
“To me and a magistrate.”
That changed everything.
“Why a rival boss?” I asked.
Raffaele smiled sadly.
“Because sometimes your enemy is the only man with no reason to protect your family.”
That made awful sense.
“Lorenzo learned about it?”
“Yes.”
“He set the warehouse on fire to destroy the evidence.”
“And Elena.”
I swallowed.
“And me?”
Raffaele’s eyes softened.
“No one knew you were there.”
That mattered.
Not enough to forgive anyone.
But it mattered.
Dante looked at him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Your father’s funeral.”
Dante froze.
“Lorenzo had me removed.”
“I assumed you were there to insult us.”
“You were twenty-four, furious, and surrounded by men telling you exactly what you wanted to believe.”
Raffaele’s voice softened.
“I was not brave enough to push harder.”
That was not the answer of a man pretending innocence.
It sounded like regret.
“What happened to the red book?” I asked.
“Elena had it.”
“My mother says she left with nothing but documents Salvatore gave her.”
“Then Salvatore took it first.”
“Where?”
Raffaele looked at Dante.
“La Perla.”
Dante frowned.
“My restaurant?”
“Your father’s then.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
Dante laughed bitterly.
“Excellent.”
Raffaele tapped the table.
“There is someone who does.”
“Who?”
“Stefano.”
Dante’s eyes darkened.
Of course.
We found Stefano at the Valenti family villa that afternoon.
He was thirty-three now.
Tall.
Carefully dressed.
He looked enough like Lorenzo to make my stomach tighten.
When he saw the child’s drawing, the blood left his face.
“You kept this?”
“I did,” I said.
He looked at Dante.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try fifteen years ago.”
Stefano flinched.
“I was eighteen.”
“So?”
“My father told me there were thieves inside the warehouse.”
“An eight-year-old girl looked like a thief?”
“No.”
His voice broke.
“That’s why I opened the door.”
I stared at him.
“You heard me?”
“Crying.”
He looked at me for the first time.
“I heard you screaming for your mother.”
A strange memory returned.
A green door opening.
A boy coughing through smoke.
“Why did you lie afterward?”
“My father said if I told anyone, he would kill Elena himself.”
Dante’s hands curled.
Stefano noticed.
“He was different then.”
“No,” Dante said. “We were simply younger.”
Stefano looked down.
“My father believed Salvatore was destroying the family.”
“That’s his defense?”
“No.”
Stefano’s eyes lifted.
“That’s the reason.”
Important difference.
“Where is the red book?” Dante asked.
Stefano walked to an old cabinet.
He removed a small silver key.
The metal had been blackened by heat.
“I took this from my father’s coat the morning after the fire.”
“What does it open?”
“A storage drawer beneath the original wine room at La Perla.”
Dante stared.
“You knew?”
“I knew where he searched.”
“Did he find it?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because for fifteen years he has made me search for the key.”
Stefano placed it in my palm.
“He thinks Elena took it to Canada.”
I closed my fingers around the burned key.
Then Stefano said, “There’s something else.”
Dante looked at him.
“My father did not send the message to Aria yesterday.”
I felt cold.
“How do you know?”
“Because he didn’t know Elena was in Palermo.”
Dante’s voice dropped.
“Who did?”
May you like
Stefano swallowed.
“Someone at La Perla.”
