Chapter 6 - The Man Behind the Monster
Vincent was not arrested that day.
Not immediately.
He entered a cooperation agreement.
His attorney described it in language I barely understood.
Federal immunity for certain disclosures.
No immunity for violent crimes.
Full financial transparency.
Testimony regarding Carbone operations.
Vincent gave them everything he legally could.
Warehouses.
Shell companies.
Names.
Accounts.
He dismantled half his own empire in forty-eight hours.
Men who had feared him for twenty years suddenly called him a traitor.
Someone fired bullets into the brownstone while Maria was inside.
Nobody was hurt.
Someone burned one of Vincent’s restaurants.
Another business was bombed after closing.
The message was obvious.
Stop talking.
Vincent didn’t.
Neither did I.
My divorce case became a criminal case.
Eric was charged with assault, stalking, money laundering, identity theft and conspiracy.
His attorney offered a deal.
Rachel asked what I wanted.
“I want him to admit what he did.”
“That may not happen.”
“Then no deal.”
For the first time, I understood something.
Justice was not the same as revenge.
Revenge wanted Eric afraid.
Justice wanted him unable to do this to another woman.
I returned to the diner after six weeks.
My cast was smaller.
My ribs no longer hurt when I laughed.
The first night back, I stood behind the counter staring at booth seven.
Vincent entered at one in the morning.
Same black coat.
Same quiet presence.
But now everyone knew he was cooperating with federal investigators.
Some people thought that made him weak.
Those people had never looked into his eyes.
I poured coffee.
He sat.
“You’re working too soon.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could call your doctor.”
“You don’t know my doctor.”
He raised one eyebrow.
“Vincent.”
He smiled.
I placed the cup down.
“You look tired.”
“I am.”
“When did you sleep?”
“Tuesday.”
“It’s Friday.”
“I’m aware.”
I sat across from him.
“Are they going to charge you?”
“Possibly.”
“For what?”
“Things I did.”
The simplicity of that answer hurt.
“Did you kill people?”
He looked at me.
I almost wished I had not asked.
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“How many?”
“Lena.”
“I need to know who you are.”
He looked into his coffee.
“Three.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“One was trying to kill me. One killed my father.”
“And the third?”
Vincent was silent.
“The third?”
“He worked for Carbone.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
“He was responsible for the death of a friend.”
“Did he have a gun?”
“No.”
I looked away.
Vincent did not excuse himself.
“I was thirty-one. Angry. Powerful enough that nobody told me no.”
I thought of Eric.
Maybe Vincent saw it.
“I am not asking you to forgive that.”
“Good.”
“I’m telling you because you deserve the truth.”
I looked at him again.
“Do you regret it?”
“Yes.”
“Would you do it again?”
He took a long time.
“No.”
I believed him.
Not because he was Vincent Moretti.
Because he had hesitated.
A liar would have answered faster.
“Mom knew what you were?”
“Yes.”
“That’s why she left.”
“Partly.”
“And you hated her?”
“No.”
“You told her she was dead to you.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like hate.”
“It was fear dressed as anger.”
I understood that too well.
Vincent looked around the diner.
“She was better than me.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Turn her into a saint because she’s dead.”
He looked surprised.
“She lied to me too.”
“To protect you.”
“So did you.”
Fair.
He nodded.
I smiled faintly.
“Maybe Morettis are just terrible communicators.”
“That is possible.”
For the first time, we laughed together.
Then the front window exploded.
Vincent knocked me beneath the table.
A bullet struck the wall.
Customers screamed.
Vincent’s men rushed inside.
Another shot.
Then tires squealed outside.
The car disappeared.
Vincent looked at me.
His face became cold.
“No more.”
I knew that expression.
“What are you going to do?”
“End it.”
“How?”
He did not answer.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“Vincent.”
He looked at me.
“If you go kill Carbone, everything you just told me was a lie.”
His jaw tightened.
“He shot at you.”
“And if you murder him?”
“He stops.”
“And someone replaces him.”
Silence.
I stood.
“My mother wanted out of this.”
“I know.”
“She died trying.”
“I know.”
“Then stop building the same world that killed her.”
Those words hurt him.
I meant them to.
Detective Walsh arrived.
Security footage captured the vehicle.
A license plate led to a Carbone-owned garage.
For once, Vincent let the police go first.
They found weapons.
Cash.
Documents.
But no Salvatore.
Then I received a call.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Lena.”
Salvatore.
My blood chilled.
“What do you want?”
“You have something of mine.”
“The ledger belongs to federal investigators now.”
“I’m not talking about the ledger.”
“What?”
“Your mother left two books.”
I looked at Vincent.
He was watching me.
“What second book?”
“The one that could put Vincent away for life.”
I stopped breathing.
Salvatore laughed.
“Ask your uncle why he never told you about that one.”
The line went dead.
I looked at Vincent.
“What second book?”
His face told me everything.
“You knew.”
“Lena—”
“You knew!”
“I suspected.”
“What is in it?”
Vincent became silent.
I stepped closer.
“What did my mother know about you?”
May you like
His eyes met mine.
“Everything.”
