Chapter 3
Giorgio Silvestri’s office smelled of old decisions and inevitable consequences. A particular smell: furniture wax, aged paper, and the sour sweat of desperate men.
I sat in the tufted leather armchair, my back to the window.
Outside, Chicago’s sky hung like a slab of gray lead, threatening another storm, but in here, the air was stagnant.
Silvestri, the family’s lawyer for thirty years, wiped his forehead with a linen handkerchief for the third time in five minutes.
He knew what he was about to read. He knew the paper on his desk wasn’t a will—it was a sentence.
The solid oak door flew open with a bang that made the lawyer jump.
Solaia D’Angelo entered. No, she didn’t enter. She strutted.
If her goal was to offend her father’s memory and shock the conservative morality of the Cosa Nostra, she’d succeeded with distinction.
The black lace dress—Dolce it looked like a child playing dress-up in a world she didn’t understand.
“The wedding is in two weeks,” I informed her, checking the time on my wrist. I had a meeting with the Capos in twenty minutes. Life went on. “The ceremony will be at the Cathedral. Discreet.”
I walked to the door. “And Solaia?” I stopped with my hand on the doorknob, without looking back. “Next time you walk into a business meeting, dress like a woman, not like a high-class prostitute. You’re a Varro now. Have some dignity.”
I opened the door and stepped out, leaving behind the muffled sound of her first sob and the cloying smell of tuberose.
The contract was sealed. The war had begun.