Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty Eight
Caterina
Adrian is awake for almost four hours straight before I leave the hospital.
I don’t want to leave. Not at all. I’m not suddenly comfortably walking out of his room while he is still pale and bruised and recovering from almost dying on my lawn.
Not because he is better, but because my standards for his being better now include him standing up, arguing with me, and making that infuriatingly calm face when I tell him he is being impossible.
He is definitely not there yet.
But he is awake. Mostly coherent. Irritated with everyone. Annoyed by the hospital. He was grateful when Teresa brought him real coffee and then furious when she only let him have three sips.
So he is healing.
And I have work to do.
Not casino work. Not board packets or press statements or compliance language or staff schedules, though all of that still exists in the background like a swarm of angry insects waiting to eat me alive.
This is different.
This is the thing I have been circling for days from beside Adrian’s hospital bed.
The thing I have followed through shell companies, false vendor structures, holding firms, document after endless document. All clearly designed by men who believed nobody would ever have the patience to peel them open layer by layer.
They were wrong.
I have patience.
I have rage.
And today, I have proof.
Or close enough that Papà is going to listen to me.
No matter what.
I have my laptop tucked under one arm as I walk through my father’s house. I have been staying here since the attack because my house is not home to me.
It is a crime scene.
Antonio has assured me they will have the whole place cleaned up. Everything repaired. Blood gone, broken table replaced or restored, walls patched, shattered glass removed, and flowers replaced.
As if that is what bothers me.
As if cleaning it means I can walk back inside and not see the bunker door closing with Adrian on the other side, not see the dead monitors, not see Adrian bleeding on a grainy camera feed, not see yellow roses crushed into spilled wine.
Maybe I should go back.
Maybe if I do not, the place wins. The attack wins. The men who brought violence into my home win.
I do not know yet.
I have not decided.
For now, I am here.
Walking toward his office with my laptop under my arm and my spine straight.
Today, he listens.
Today, I am not the youngest daughter. Not the one to hide in a bunker. Not the one to move from protected place to protected place while men decide which doors lock and which routes are safe.
I matter. My work matters. My mind matters.
And I am done waiting for someone else to notice.
I stop outside Papà’s office only long enough to take one deep breath.
Then I open the door and walk in.
“I need to talk to you.”
Papà looks up from behind his desk.
For one second, that is all I see. My father in his chair, dark eyes, face lined with more strain than he would ever admit. He looks tired. He looks older than he did a week ago.
Then I realize he is not alone.
Giovanni is seated near the windows, one ankle crossed over his knee, expression sharp and unreadable. Antonio stands beside the sideboard with a coffee cup in one hand and his phone in the other. Roberto is in one of the chairs facing the desk, a folder open in his lap.
All three of my uncles look at me.
So does Papà.
My confidence stutters.
I did not expect an audience. Especially not this audience.
For one horrible second, I feel twelve years old again, walking into a room where the men were talking, and I feel like I interrupted something important.
Then I think of Adrian in a hospital bed. A tube down his throat while a machine breathes for him.
I think of the small life inside me that nobody in this room knows about yet.
No, not this time.
I close the door behind me.
“Good,” I say, even though my heart is suddenly beating too fast. “You should all hear this.”
Antonio lowers his phone. “Hear what?”
I cross to the table in the middle of the room and set my laptop down without asking permission.
Papà’s brows lift slightly.
I open the screen, connect to the display on the wall, and pull up the first file before anyone can tell me to slow down, sit down, calm down, rest, or any other word men like to use on women.
“I know who’s behind the attacks,” I say.
No one gasps or jumps. No one starts asking questions all at once.
I guess I didn’t expect them to, but I would have liked more of a reaction.
I guess I’ll settle for Papà’s gaze sharpening, Giovanni uncrossing his ankle, Roberto closing the folder, and Antonio putting down his coffee.
Whatever.
Papà looks at me for a long moment. “Caterina.”
“No.” I hold up one hand. “Not yet. You need to let me talk first.”
He stills.
I have never spoken to him like this. Certainly not with Giovanni, Antonio, and Roberto in the room, but I do not stop.
It’s now or never.
“I have spent the last few weeks looking at this from the business side. From the casino side. Everyone else was looking at shooters, routes, physical access, and direct threats. Which was necessary, obviously. But it was not enough.”
I click on the first slide.
A web of companies appears on the screen.
Boxes filled with dates, names, and addresses, connected by arrows.
Antonio’s eyes narrow immediately.
“That’s a hell of a structure,” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “And that is the simplified version.”
Roberto leans forward. “Where did you get these?”
“Public filings, vendor records, insurance inquiries, gaming commission correspondence, internal casino documents, old property transfers, and a few databases I’m going to keep to myself.”
Roberto opens his mouth.
I point at him. “Uh-uh.”
His mouth closes.
Giovanni’s lips twitch.
Papà says nothing.
I switch to the next page.
“The attacks had two purposes every time. One obvious. One hidden.”
I point to the first column.
“The note to Teresa’s office. Obvious purpose: frighten the family, make Papà think about legacy, children, bloodline. Hidden purpose: direct attention toward Teresa’s old work and away from the casino.”
Next page.
“Erica and Emma’s route change. Obvious purpose: make the threat to the children real. Hidden purpose: test how much access they had to family movement and whether security could be diverted through a false routine disruption.”
Next.
“The casino floor attack. Obvious purpose: kill me or grab me or whatever else they planned before Adrian interrupted it. Hidden purpose: make The Regent Club look unstable. Trigger board panic, press scrutiny, regulatory concern, insurance pressure, and investor hesitation.”
I look at Papà.
“Someone has been studying the seams,” I say. “Not just the family. Not just the criminal side or the legitimate side. The places where all of it comes together.”
Papà’s eyes do not leave mine.
For once, he does not interrupt.
“Now, the shell companies.”
I click again, and the screen changes.
“This one looked like a vendor group at first. It had a tiny contract connected to maintenance supplies. Nothing large enough to flag. But it links to an insurance inquiry that came in two days after the casino attack. That inquiry links to a private risk assessment firm, which links to a holding company registered in Nevada.”
Antonio leans closer.
I continue.
“That holding company appears under three names. One dissolved. One active. One apparently dormant but still filing through the same accountant.”
I click, and a name appears.
Costa Meridian Holdings.
Giovanni’s expression changes first as the name registers.
“That’s Salvatore Costa’s business,” Giovanni says slowly.
A name they hadn’t heard in a long time, but one they knew well. Years back, even before Luca went to prison, the Costas were a rival family, nearly as powerful as the Contis.
Until my father took them down and absorbed their organization into his. Salvatore Costa lost everything in one fell swoop.
“You think Salvatore Costa is the one causing all this trouble?” Giovanni continues. “Threatening us?”
Papà’s face has gone hard.
Antonio frowns. “Last I heard, the Costas were doing well enough. Got themselves a line out west.”
“Not Salvatore Costa,” I say.
I click again.
A photograph appears. A younger man with dark hair and hard eyes appears in a clipping of a public charity event.
“His son. Rocco Costa.”
Roberto’s gaze snaps to me. “Salvatore’s son is running things? It would be big news if Salvatore passed it on.”
“He didn’t pass it on,” I say. “Not voluntarily anyway. Salvatore Costa died a year ago.”
That surprises them.
Even Papà.
His eyes narrow. “I would certainly have heard that.”
“Yes,” I say. “You should have.”
Antonio is already reaching for his phone, but Roberto says, “Wait.”
He looks at me, brows drawn. “Someone like Salvatore Costa dies and nobody hears about it?”
“Not if his son hides it very well,” I say. “See, after his organization went down, Salvatore got into the drug business. He was smaller than before, but desperate to keep the image of what he used to be. But he made a big mistake. He broke the one rule drug dealers live by.”
Antonio looks at me.
“Don’t sample the product,” he says.
“Exactly,” I confirm. “It took him down a very dark path. Addiction. Paranoia. Debt. Bad decisions. Last year, it ended him. Overdose, though Rocco paid enough to keep it under wraps.”
Roberto shakes his head once. “Pay all you want; I would have heard about this. Salvatore Costa going down that road? Someone would have talked.”
“His son did a good job hiding it,” I say.
“Rocco kept the business moving under Salvatore’s name.
He used signatures, older authorization chains, and people who either didn’t know Salvatore was dead or were paid enough not to care.
He kept the image alive because Salvatore Costa's death from an overdose shows weakness. Salvatore Costa still feared, still untouchable, still in business? That gives Rocco time.”
Papà leans back slightly.
His face is unreadable.
“So Rocco blames me for his father’s death and wants payback,” he says.
“Yes and no.”
Giovanni looks at me. “What does that mean?”
I just click to the next page.
Another company structure appears.
Different names, states, and addresses, but similar structure to the last one.
Then I bring up the name.
Damiano Vitale.
“Damiano Vitale?” Antonio says. “He’s been out of the business for years.” He lowers his voice. “Since the incident down by the docks.”
I look at him. “And by incident, you mean when you were ambushed, and he ended up paralyzed from the waist down?”
Antonio’s eyes cut to mine.
“In a wheelchair for the rest of his life,” I add.
Giovanni’s expression goes flat. “We were working with Damiano.”
“Yes.”
“Damiano was an ally,” Roberto adds. “We were working with him when we were ambushed by the Mancinis. He took damage standing beside us.”
“Did he see it that way?” I ask. “Or did he see men who walked away while he never did?”
The silence that follows tells me enough.
I click again.
“Damiano has been quiet for years, yes. But money connected to his medical trusts, holding accounts, and old dockside interests moves through two companies that touched the insurance pressure after the casino attack.”
Roberto leans forward again. “You’re certain?”
“Not enough for court,” I say honestly. “But I’m not presenting this to a courtroom.”
He accepts that with a small nod.
I click to the next page.
“And then there is this.”
Yet another structure. This one is very different than the others. All the companies connected to it are new. All made within the past year.
Carlo Valenti.
This time, no one can hide their reaction.
Giovanni swears viciously under his breath.
Antonio goes very still.
Roberto’s face tightens.
Apparently, just seeing the name elicits very uncharacteristic reactions from all of them.
But Papà… his eyes darken in a way that makes the room feel ten degrees colder. I would be terrified if it were directed at me.
“Carlo Valenti,” I say. “Son of Bruno Valenti. Former don of a very powerful crime family.”
I look him dead in the eye.
“The very one you took from him, in fact.”
Then I look at the rest of them.
“You were friends with Carlo,” I say. “All of you were. He was your way into the Valenti family. You worked your way up, and then you took it, renamed it, and made it yours.”
Giovanni’s voice is low. “Careful, Caterina.”
“No,” Papà says.
One word is all he needs, and Giovanni goes silent.
Papà’s eyes remain on mine. “Let her speak.”
My heart thuds hard, but I continue.
“Bruno Valenti died years ago. But Carlo Valenti is still very much alive.”
Roberto says, “Carlo has been quiet for decades.”
“Quiet does not mean gone.”
Antonio looks at the screen. “So, it’s one of these guys?”
“No,” Papà says, leaning forward. He says nothing for a long moment while his gaze moves over the screen.
“Not one of them,” he says quietly. His eyes come back to mine. “All of them. Together.”