“Jesus, Luca, what are you going to do?”
I’d been asking myself that ever since Molly had vanished out my bedroom door. I sighed. “I’m already doing it. Have you been going through the Bianchi’s surveillance recordings?” I asked, switching subjects.
“Yeah.” He frowned, lowering his gaze. Never the best of signs. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Why?”
He clicked some keys and jerked his chin toward the screen. “Just watch.”
And I did. I watched as Roman, one of our more smalltime runners—though my father had utilized him frequently—snuck into what we knew to be the Bianchi’s territory and dropped off a package.
Then, he collected cash for it. Next, I saw an image from the security footage taken right here in the mansion, showing Roman getting paid with a sizable wad of those same bills by our father.
Both clips were from the same day only an hour apart. But as condemning as that might be, there was more. Alessandro had found multiple examples of Roman doing this with the same pattern. Going into the wrong part of Philadelphia, exchanging a package for money, then returning here to be rewarded by Angelo.
“How many of these instances are there?” I asked my brother, hearing the shock in my own voice.
“So far? I’ve found fifty-two. And that’s only from the past year.”
“Goddammit!” I shouted, taking my tumbler and throwing it full force against the wall. It shattered, sending shards of glass everywhere. Rosa appeared a couple of minutes later, but I ordered her out. My chest heaving, I worked to calm down. I had to find everything I needed to before my loss of control drew any more attention. “When did you find these?”
“I found the first one yesterday, but I didn’t want to believe it, you know? So I kept sifting through the data. But it kept getting
worse and worse.” Alessandro looked lost, as if torn between insurmountable evidence and the fact that he didn’t want to believe any of it.
I knew precisely how he felt. “Okay, do me a favor. Get Roman in here. I want to speak with him. And don’t share this with anybody else. Not with Marco or Gabriel or anyone. Got me?”
“I got you,” he said, but reached for my arm. “But what if the Bianchis dig up the same information? They already have a few of these records. Our reputations with the other families could be irreparably harmed. They could stop negotiating with us, stop coexisting so peacefully with us. They could even declare our claims to be forfeit and try to take over our operation.”
He kept his voice low, but each word out of his mouth had more and more of an edge to it. I couldn’t let him lose it, too, so I seized his shoulders.
“Listen, I’ll set up a meeting with Donovan Bianchi in the morning. I’ll talk to him, see if I can ferret out what he knows and doesn’t know.” I ran a hand through my hair. “He should be willing to agree. I mean, he hasn’t made a move since he busted in here, and that’s been three months ago now.”
“Seems he might’ve been within his rights to kill Dad,” Alessandro said, and as much as I wanted to balk at my brother’s words, they were accurate. Bianchi likely saw what he’d done as justified.
I couldn’t keep from scowling at him, though. “Just pretend like you didn’t see this.”
He nodded, closing the laptop and putting it away. I marched from the room, feeling half nauseous. I hated that I had to deal with this mess, one my father had left behind for me to clean up. I had no way of knowing what the patriarch of our family’s motives had been, either.
Had it been some sick joke? Had Donovan Bianchi double-crossed him, and he’d done this in retribution? Had it only been about greed like the head of Bianchi family had accused him of? Had it been some stupid bid for more power? Or had I been wrong all along, and Angelo Varasso really had started to lose his marbles?
It was my job to find out.
Roman Petrella stared down at his feet rather than meeting my gaze, which made him come across as more diminutive that he actually was. He stood only about three inches shorter than me, but his attitude was one of a man holding his hat in his hand, dutiful and obedient. He was also a bit of a simpleton.
He was lean to the point of almost being skinny, with little to no meat on his bones. But this was an illusion because I’d seen him sprint across distances like an Olympic athlete. It’s why he’d always been such an effective runner. In our line of work speed, efficiency, and a low profile were worth their weight in gold.
Like most of us with largely Italian ancestry Roman had dark, nearly black hair and eyes and an olive skin tone, but his features gave the appearance of being too small for his face. As if they’d somehow gotten squashed.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Varasso, sir. So sorry,” he said, his voice unsteady.
Although he’d only been with our family for a few years, he’d been close to my father. Closer than most of our employees. My father had liked him from the beginning and had chosen him for many jobs because of it. Roman might not have the highest of intelligence levels, but he was excellent at what he did.
“Thank you, Roman.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “I need to clarify some things.”
“Ask me anything, sir. Anything at all.”
“I need to know what you were doing in the Bianchi’s part of the city.” Roman went motionless, his gaze still down, like prey trying to camouflage itself from a predator. “I know you were there, Roman. I’ve seen video footage of it. I know you were delivering something for my father. I need to know what that was and why my dad was breaching their borders.”