Chapter Nine
Taddeo
Cesare's invitation arrived shortly before five in the form of a phone call that lasted less than two minutes and contained nothing Taddeo could reasonably mistake for a request.
He was in the library at Northglass reviewing the new set of historical property records Orsino had delivered when his phone vibrated beside the folder.
Across the room, Isolde sat sideways in one of the window chairs with her feet tucked beneath her, a museum catalog open across her lap and a cup of coffee cooling untouched on the table.
She had been reading the same page for several minutes, which meant she was almost certainly thinking about Corwin rather than maritime exhibitions, although Taddeo had learned enough during the past several days to know that pointing that out would only make her deny it out of principle.
Cesare skipped the greeting. “Dinner at seven.”
Taddeo turned another page in the redevelopment file. “I can be there.”
“Bring Ms. Dacre.”
His hand stopped.
Across the room, Isolde looked up, either because something in his posture had changed or because she had begun paying more attention to his conversations than she admitted.
Taddeo lowered his voice slightly. “Why?”
“Because she's living in a Bellandi house while we decide what her brother did, and I'd prefer to meet the woman before everyone else develops opinions on my behalf.”
“You met her file.”
“A file doesn't talk back.”
Taddeo glanced toward Isolde. She raised one eyebrow.
Cesare continued, “Seven. My house. Orsino will be here. Lelio and Mauro too.”
The presence of the capos changed the invitation from social curiosity into something more deliberate, although Cesare's dinners often occupied that uncertain ground where family and business overlapped so thoroughly separating them became pointless. “Does she need to know anything before we come?”
“That depends. Does she know how to use a fork?”
“Yes.”
“Then we're probably safe.”
Taddeo heard the faint clink of glass at the other end of the line, followed by Cesare saying something away from the phone to someone in the room. “Seven,” he repeated when he returned. “And Taddeo, don't bring six cars. My neighbors already think I sell drugs.”
“They're not wrong enough for the distinction to matter.”
Cesare laughed once and ended the call.
Taddeo set the phone down.
Isolde closed the museum catalog over one finger. “I'm assuming that expression means something irritating has happened.”
“Cesare wants us at dinner.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Us.”
“Yes.”
“You and me.”
“That is generally what us means.”
She slid the catalog onto the table and unfolded her legs. “Do I get a vote?”
“No.”
The answer earned him exactly the look he'd expected.
Taddeo leaned back against the table, arms loosely folded. “You can be angry about it in the car.”
“I like how efficiently you schedule my objections.”
“I've had practice.”
“Mostly with me?”
“Recently.”
She rose from the chair and crossed toward the coffee table, lifting her cup before apparently remembering it had gone cold. “Why does the head of the Bellandi Family want your captive at dinner?”
The word still irritated him when someone else used it. Coming from her, it landed differently, closer to accusation than description.
“He wants to meet you.”
“That sounds suspiciously civilized.”
“Cesare often is.”
“Does that make it better?”
“No.”
She set the coffee back down without drinking. “Who else is going to be there?”
“Orsino. Lelio Ardizzi. Mauro Corsi. Some family.”
Her attention sharpened at Lelio's name. They had discussed him only indirectly so far, mostly through financial records and Taddeo's explanation of the Bellandi hierarchy. “The capo who wanted you to question me harder.”
“Yes.”
“And Mauro is the other capo?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else I should know is capable of having me buried under a construction project?”
Taddeo considered the question with more seriousness than she expected. “Several.”
Isolde stared at him.
“That was a joke.”
“No, it wasn't.”
His mouth shifted faintly. “Not entirely.”
She muttered something beneath her breath that sounded like fucking unbelievable and picked up the museum catalog again as though ending the conversation through literature remained an option.
“You don't need to dress formally,” Taddeo added.
Isolde looked over the top edge. “I wasn't planning to impress the mafia.”
“That may be the healthiest attitude anyone has brought to one of Cesare's dinners.”
She lowered the book slowly. “You realize everything you say about these people makes me less interested in meeting them.”
“I wasn't trying to sell you on the experience.”
“No. You don't seem burdened by customer service.”
Taddeo returned to the redevelopment records before she could see how close he was to smiling.
They left Northglass at six-twenty in one car rather than six, partly because Cesare had asked and partly because turning the evening into a visible security operation would have made Isolde more tense than necessary.
Luca drove. Taddeo sat beside her in the rear, close enough that he could feel when she shifted her leg away from the door on sharper turns but not close enough to touch.
She had chosen black trousers, a soft dark blouse, and the same flat boots she'd worn during the storm.
Nothing about the clothing was remarkable.
Taddeo still noticed the open line of her throat where the blouse folded away from her collarbone and disliked the fact that he'd noticed it before they left the house.
The attraction between them had become impossible to ignore after the kitchen the previous night.
He had no intention of doing anything about it.
That did not prevent him from being acutely aware of the warmth of her body beside him whenever the car turned.
Cesare lived in an older residential district south of the harbor, far enough from Crownport's center for the streets to widen and the houses to retreat behind stone walls and mature trees.
The Bellandi home had belonged to the family for three generations and looked nothing like Northglass.
It was a broad brick house built before the First World War, with dark green shutters, a deep front porch, and enough vehicles along the curved drive to suggest a holiday rather than a private dinner.
Isolde looked through the window as Luca pulled in. “This is not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Something with more gates.”
“There are gates.”
“I didn't see them.”
“Then they work.”
She turned toward him. “You know that's not how gates work.”
Taddeo opened his door before she could continue.
The smell of garlic, roasted meat, and wood smoke reached them before they entered the house.
So did laughter. Someone inside shouted about a football game, another voice answered with an obscenity, and a child ran across the entrance hall carrying what appeared to be half a dinner roll before a woman followed, caught him by the back of his sweater, and redirected him toward the kitchen.
Isolde stopped just inside the doorway.
Taddeo had expected the reaction.
Northglass had introduced her to Bellandi power through security, surveillance, and locked boundaries.
Cesare's house introduced the other half of the system: family photographs covering an entire hallway, coats piled over the banister, children arguing near the stairs, older women carrying serving bowls as if the men discussing extortion fifteen feet away were merely inconveniences in the path to the dining room.
A soldier Taddeo had known since childhood crossed the hall with a bottle of wine in one hand, greeted him with a brief clasp at the shoulder, then looked at Isolde before catching himself and looking away.
Too late.
She had noticed.
She noticed everything.
Cesare emerged from the sitting room holding a tumbler of mineral water rather than whiskey, his suit jacket gone and his tie loosened enough to make him look more like a wealthy uncle hosting Sunday dinner than the man who could order half the city frightened before breakfast. Orsino followed several steps behind carrying a plate with a slice of bread and something spread across it.
Cesare looked at Isolde.
Then at Taddeo.
“You brought her.”
“You asked.”
“That isn't always enough with you.”
Isolde's gaze shifted between them.
Cesare extended his hand. “Ms. Dacre.”
She shook it. “Mr. Bellandi.”
“Cesare is fine.”
“I'll work up to it.”
Cesare's mouth twitched.
Taddeo watched closely.
He had seen men become nervous around Cesare and compensate by speaking too much.
Others became deferential, mistaking submission for safety.
Isolde did neither. Her handshake ended normally, and she looked at him with the same direct attention she gave Taddeo when she expected an answer she might not like.
Cesare gestured toward the sitting room. “Come in. We're waiting on one more person before dinner.”
Isolde moved with him while Taddeo fell naturally into step at her side.
The room already held Mauro and his wife, two adult Bellandi children Taddeo knew by sight rather than closely, several younger relatives, and a handful of senior soldiers who had earned the privilege of being included without turning every family gathering into a leadership meeting.
A football game played silently on the television while three men argued about a disputed call from ten minutes earlier as if the league commissioner might phone for their opinion.
Isolde's eyes moved through the room carefully.
Taddeo could almost see her recalibrating.