Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Caterina
Luca’s little girl.
There it is.
I knew someone would say it or something similar eventually. I expected it from Rocco, maybe from Damiano, because their anger is younger, sharper, less disciplined.
But Carlo Valenti says it as if it should matter. As if he’s cut me.
Maybe once, it would have.
I let the silence stretch.
Then I smile.
“Actually,” I say, “Luca’s little girl has been doing some forensic accounting.”
Rocco’s mouth tightens.
Damiano looks like he wants to spit at me.
Carlo only watches.
He is the one I need to worry about.
Rocco is temper. Damiano is resentment. Carlo is patience. Carlo is a man who could wait years to take a shot and not miss.
Which means he is the one who understands first.
I can see it happen.
The smallest shift behind his eyes.
He looks at the folder in front of me.
I can practically hear Adrian, watching me through a monitor, telling me to stop enjoying this so much.
I am not enjoying it.
Well, not exactly.
But there is a satisfaction in sitting across from the men who brought death to my home and watching them realize I was not the opening they thought I was.
“You invited us here,” Carlo says.
“Yes.”
“Under false pretenses.”
“You came under false names,” I point out. “So let’s not get too picky about formalities.”
Carlo’s mouth curves faintly. “You do sound like him.”
“You keep saying that like it’s an insult.”
Rocco laughs once, but it’s ugly and vicious. “You think you’re clever.”
“Oh, I’m pretty damn clever,” I say.
His eyes flare, and I feel a spark of triumph.
Angry men make mistakes. Papà taught me that.
Damiano’s fingers flex on the arm of his wheelchair. “You have no idea what you are playing with.”
“I think I have a very good idea.” I flip open the folder and slide one document across the table. “Costa Meridian Holdings.”
Rocco’s gaze drops.
I slide another.
“Vitale Shore Trust.”
Damiano’s jaw tightens.
Another.
“Valenti Renewal Group.”
Carlo’s eyes flick to it.
“These three entities appear unrelated at first. Different registration states. Different managers. Different purposes. Maintenance, risk assessment, hospitality development.”
I tap the top sheet with my gold pen. “Except they all shared the same accountant for three quarters last year. They all routed payment through the same Nevada holding company. They all touched vendors connected to The Regent Club within six weeks of the first threat.”
No one speaks.
I keep going.
“Then there are the insurance inquiries, the regulator tips, the press leaks, the board pressure. All timed around incidents that made my family look unstable, and this casino look shaky.”
Rocco leans forward. “You have nothing.”
I look at him. “I have enough.”
“You have paper.”
“Paper is what took down Al Capone.” I tilt my head. “And it’s how you tried to take us down, right? Well, that and trying to murder children, I mean.”
His nostrils flare.
Carlo watches me with that cold, measuring expression.
Damiano says, “You think paperwork matters after what your father built with blood?”
“No,” I say. “I think paperwork matters because men like you still need banks.”
That shuts him up.
For half a second.
“You stupid girl,” he says.
“Careful,” I say softly.
His eyes narrow.
“I am tired,” I say. “I have had very little sleep. My house is a wreck, thanks to you cowards. And I have already listened to quite a lot of misogyny out of you unoriginal asshats. So if the best you have is ‘stupid girl’, I’m going to be disappointed.”
Carlo watches me more closely now, and I know he finally understands that the act I’m putting on isn’t covering up fear.
It’s rage.
“You think you understand what we took from you?” Carlo asks.
“You took nothing from me,” I say. “You tried and failed. You killed innocent people and have nothing to show for it.”
Carlo’s face morphs, and I know I finally hit a nerve. Hit him where it hurts.
This is always what it has been about. Not just revenge. Not just the casino.
This is about legacy.
Men furious that their names did not survive the way my father’s did.
Men who decided that if they could not take his power directly, they would carve away the future until nothing was left but the root.
My father. Alone.
I lean back in my chair. “That was the plan, wasn’t it? Not just killing us. Not just damaging the casino, but destroying the name forever. Like yours was, each of you.”
I look at each of them in turn.
“You little bitch,” Carlos says, finally angry.
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere with the insults,” I say. “Though I’d still consider that one pretty misogynistic. I’m still waiting for something really good.”
“Luca always had a talent for taking what belonged to other men,” he says, enraged.
“And you thought you would return the favor.”
“He built a kingdom on my father’s bones.”
“Your father was weak.”
Carlo’s eyes flash. There it is. The first real crack.
“You do not know what Bruno Valenti was,” Carlo says.
I smirk. “I know he lost.”
Rocco gives a sharp laugh despite himself.
Carlo’s gaze flicks toward him.
It’s a small mistake, but I catch it.
They are not as united as they want me to believe.
Of course, they are not.
They have overlapping grudges, not loyalty.
I turn to Rocco and laugh, disgusted with myself but knowing it must be done. “Not as weak as your father, though, right, Rocco? And you want to blame mine for it?”
Rocco’s chair moves back, lightning quick.
The door behind him opens before he gets fully upright, and the room fills with Contis.
Standing behind everyone, in the doorway, is Adrian. I love that he couldn’t resist, that he couldn’t just stay up in the security room.
Rocco freezes.
For one second, his rage has nowhere to go.
Vito’s eyes flick to me, and I see the question in them.
I give him the smallest nod.
Nico’s gaze moves from Rocco to Damiano to Carlo with a kind of vicious satisfaction.
“You should sit down,” Nico says.
Rocco looks like he might do something stupid.
I almost hope he does.
Carlo says, “Sit down, Rocco.”
This time, the command carries less authority.
Rocco hears it too.
His face burns with humiliation as he lowers himself into the chair.
“You should give him a treat for being such a good boy,” I taunt.
Rocco looks like he’d gladly beat me if no one were there to stop him.
Coward, I think in disgust.
The door opens again.
Papà steps in.
I can practically feel the shift in the room when he enters. It’s always like this.
The air always shifts when Luca Conti enters a room like this. Even after all these years, Luca Conti commands attention just by being.
Carlo looks at him.
For the first time since he walked into the room, he looks truly alive.
“Luca,” he says.
My father says nothing at first.
Papà says nothing at first.
His gaze moves over the three men. Rocco. Damiano. Carlo.
Then it comes to me, and he gives the smallest nod.
My chest tightens.
Then he looks back at Carlo.
“After all these years,” he says quietly, “this is what you became?”
Carlo smiles. “Careful. You almost sound disappointed.”
“I am.”
The word has more impact than anger would have had.
Carlo’s smile thins.
Papà walks farther into the room, stopping beside my chair.
Not in front of me, but beside me.
I do not know if he understands how much that matters.
“You sent men into my daughter’s home,” he says. “You put guns near my grandchildren. You tried to kill my children.”
Carlo’s voice hardens. “You took my father’s family.”
“Your father lost it.”
“You betrayed him.”
“I outgrew him,” he says. “He couldn’t keep up, and you didn’t step up and take your chance when you had it. You were both weak.”
Carlo’s face goes pale with rage.
For a second, all the age drops away from him, and I can see the boy he must have been then.
Entitled.
Spoiled.
Certain the world owed him his father’s chair.
“You think power made you better than us,” Carlo says.
Papà’s mouth barely moves.
“No,” he says. “I think learning from my failures and not being a cowardly scumbag who tries to murder children makes me better than you.”
“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” Carlo threatens.
“I’m sure I do,” Papà says. “You waited decades to come for me and still missed.”
Carlo’s gaze cuts to me.
“No,” he says softly. “I didn’t.”
I set my pen down.
“You did,” I say. “In every single way.”
Carlo looks at me again.
“We have proof of all your legally questionable actions, plus you knowingly admitting it on camera. We’ve found evidence that you’re connected to the threats.
Damiano’s granddaughter there sang like a canary.
And I’m sure it won’t be long until I find a connection between you three and payment for the mercenaries you sent to my home. I already have a line on them.”
Damiano’s face goes gray.
Carlo looks at Roberto, then Antonio, then my father.
Then, finally back to me.
“You think this ends in court?” he asks.
“No,” I say and lean forward.
His eyes narrow.
“But I do think we have some unspoken rules, and I can guarantee that everyone who still respects your name and does business with you is about to find out you needed to threaten children and pregnant women because you could not face Luca Conti directly.”
Rocco’s face twists.
Damiano closes his eyes.
Carlo stays very still.
That is the part that hurts him.
More than the legal troubles, more than the possibility of prison, or even financial ruin.
Humiliation.
The complete ruination of his legacy.
Papà looks down at me then.
He puts his hand on my shoulder and looks back at Carlo.
“Over thirty years ago, your father lost to me,” he says. “Today, you lose to Caterina.”
My throat thickens.
Not “my daughter.”
Caterina.
The three men are escorted out, and the room slowly empties after them. Adrian gives me a nod before retreating, finally leaving my father and me alone.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Then he says, very quietly, “I should have listened sooner.”
The room goes painfully still.
My heart twists.
I stand and step into his arms.
“Yes,” I say. “You should have.”
He laughs. “Ever the humble one, you are.”
“I learned at the knee of the master,” I say, pressing my face to his shoulder.