Chapter Four
Taddeo
By the time Taddeo reached the Bellandi club shortly after ten, Crownport had fully settled into the gray, wet morning that followed most autumn storms along the harbor.
Rain clung to the black sedans lined beneath the awning, traffic moved slowly through the financial district, and the old stone facade of Bellandi House looked almost respectable beneath the dark sky.
That was intentional. The building had operated under one legitimate name or another for nearly seventy years, currently as a private social and dining club with a waitlist long enough to make businessmen beg for membership and politicians pretend they hadn't.
The public rooms downstairs were polished wood, leather chairs, white tablecloths, discreet staff, and old photographs of Crownport mayors who had smiled beside Bellandis without asking too many questions.
The rooms that mattered were farther inside.
Taddeo entered through the private side entrance, handed his damp overcoat to an attendant who had known him since he was nineteen, and continued down the paneled corridor without slowing.
Men nodded as he passed. Some were soldiers, some associates, some legitimate executives who had learned long ago that being invited behind the public dining rooms meant they were useful rather than important.
Taddeo acknowledged them without stopping.
Cesare had called the meeting for nine-thirty.
Taddeo was late because he had remained at Northglass long enough to make sure Isolde's first morning didn't begin with one of the younger guards deciding that following instructions required making her feel watched every second.
He had also spent twenty minutes reviewing the same transfer logs she had looked at in his office.
That part annoyed him.
Not because she had pointed out anything revolutionary.
The financial trail still led to Corwin.
Credentials, authentication, timing, disappearance.
No one looking at the evidence objectively would have concluded otherwise.
Yet Isolde's observation had remained with him during the drive into the city: real records accumulated noise.
He had thought something similar before.
He disliked that she had seen it in less than an hour.
The private conference room at the rear of the second floor had no windows and no decoration beyond a long walnut table, a sideboard, and a framed photograph of Cesare's father taken sometime in the 1970s.
Cesare sat at the head of the table with one hand around a coffee cup, reading from a printed report without any visible concern that six men had been waiting for him to speak.
He was sixty-one and carried authority without needing to advertise it, broad through the shoulders despite age, dark hair gone mostly silver at the temples, his suit immaculate enough that Taddeo suspected he'd been dressed for hours.
Orsino sat to Cesare's right with reading glasses low on his nose and a fountain pen resting between his fingers.
At sixty-eight, he had the kind of face strangers trusted immediately, lined warmly around the eyes, silver hair combed back, posture relaxed in a way that concealed how carefully he listened.
Taddeo had watched Orsino end arguments without raising his voice and destroy men politically while sounding as though he were recommending wine.
Lelio Ardizzi occupied the chair farther down the table with one ankle resting over his knee, looking impatient before Taddeo even entered.
Mauro Corsi sat opposite him, heavier, older, fingers drumming once against the polished wood before stopping when Taddeo took his place.
Two additional capos rounded out the meeting.
Cesare finished the paragraph he was reading, set the paper down, and looked at Taddeo.
“How is she?”
No greeting.
No explanation needed.
Taddeo pulled out the chair to Cesare's left and sat. “Angry.”
Lelio gave a quiet laugh as he reached for the coffee pot. “That narrows it down.”
Taddeo didn't look at him. “She doesn't know where Corwin is.”
“You believe that?” Mauro leaned back slightly, the leather chair creaking beneath his weight.
“Yes.”
Lelio poured coffee, added nothing, and stirred it anyway. “You believe it after one night.”
“I believe it because she didn't react like someone protecting his location.”
“People lie differently.”
“I'm aware.”
Lelio took a drink and glanced toward Cesare. “Then move her somewhere useful.”
Orsino's pen stopped against the margin of his notes.
Taddeo looked at Lelio now. “Explain useful.”
Lelio shrugged, too casually. “Northglass is comfortable. I'm sure she's enjoying the ocean. Doesn't mean comfort gets answers.”
The room shifted by a degree.
It wasn't the words themselves. Everyone at the table had interrogated people. Everyone understood what Lelio meant by less comfortable conditions.
Taddeo rested his forearms against the table. “She doesn't have the answer.”
“Then she might have something adjacent to it. A contact, a habit, a location she doesn't realize matters.” Lelio rotated the cup slowly between his palms. “Corwin didn't vanish into fucking smoke.”
“We're already working his contacts.”
“And she's the closest one.”
“Yes.”
“Then use that.”
Taddeo's voice remained level. “I am.”
Lelio smiled faintly. “Not how I would.”
“That isn't relevant.”
The smile stayed in place, but the amusement left it.
Cesare lifted one hand before the exchange could sharpen. He didn't raise his voice. He rarely had to. “She stays where Taddeo put her.”
Lelio looked toward the head of the table. “Cesare—”
“She stays there.”
That ended it.
Lelio leaned back again, but Taddeo saw the irritation in the movement.
Cesare returned his attention to the report. “What did she say about the evidence?”
“She wanted to see it.”
Mauro snorted. “You showed her?”
“Part of it.”
Lelio's head turned slowly.
Orsino, by contrast, looked interested rather than surprised.
Cesare's gaze lifted. “Why?”
“Because she asked the right questions.”
“That doesn't answer why.”
Taddeo folded his hands loosely. “If Corwin told her anything without explaining it, she may recognize something we don't.”
Cesare considered that for several seconds. “Did she?”
“Not yet.”
Orsino removed his glasses and polished one lens with a handkerchief. “What did she think of the transfer trail?”
“She said it looked too clean.”
Mauro frowned. “Too clean.”
“She works in document conservation. Her point was that false records often look cleaner than real ones because whoever creates them includes what should be there and forgets the useless mistakes real systems produce.”
Lelio let out a breath through his nose. “She's a paper restorer, not an accountant.”
Taddeo's eyes moved to him.
“She also isn't wrong.”
That came from Orsino.
Lelio looked across the table. “You think Dacre was framed now?”
“No.” Orsino slid his glasses back on. “I think intelligent people don't become less intelligent because their expertise isn't ours.”
Cesare tapped once against the report with his forefinger. “Corwin moved the money.”
Taddeo held his father's—no, not his father. Cesare had never asked for that title, and Taddeo had never offered it. Still, the old instinct remained whenever Cesare's certainty filled a room.
“The evidence says his access did.”
Cesare's eyes sharpened. “And now you're making her distinction.”
“It's a useful distinction.”
Mauro shifted, looking between them.
Lelio smiled again, this time without humor. “She's been in your house less than twelve hours.”
Taddeo turned his head. “Be careful.”
The room went still enough that the air-conditioning became noticeable.
Lelio's brows lifted. “About what?”
“About implying I've forgotten how to do my job.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
Mauro looked down at the table, hiding what might have been amusement.
Orsino's mouth moved faintly.
Cesare intervened before either man could push farther. “Enough.”
That one word flattened the room.
Taddeo leaned back.
Lelio looked away first.
Cesare opened another file. “We found irregularities before the eight point four.”
Taddeo's attention returned immediately.
“How far back?”
“Seven months.” Cesare pushed the file across the table. “Smaller movements. Different accounts. Some were corrected internally. Some weren't noticed because they fell inside expected project expenses.”
Taddeo opened the folder and scanned the first page.
Amounts.
Dates.
Internal cost centers.
Nothing large enough individually to trigger an alarm.
Together, they formed a pattern.
Orsino leaned toward him slightly. “Corwin accessed some of those systems too.”
“Some?”
“Not all.”
Taddeo looked up.
That changed the shape.
Lelio reached across the table, turning one page with two fingers. “Could still be him. He had access through people who had access.”
“Possible,” Taddeo replied.
Mauro rubbed at his jaw. “But if money was moving before the main theft, then eight-four might not have been the beginning.”
“No,” Orsino said. “It may have been the point where someone stopped trying to hide.”
Cesare looked toward Taddeo. “I want Corwin found before anyone outside this room decides this weakness is exploitable.”
That was the real concern.
Eight point four million dollars mattered.
The suggestion that Bellandi systems had been compromised for months mattered more.
A criminal organization survived partly through confidence. If crews believed internal controls could be manipulated, they grew cautious. If rivals believed Bellandi money could disappear without consequence, they grew brave.
Neither was acceptable.
The door opened quietly.
Silas Venn entered carrying a slim leather portfolio.