Chapter 8
SOFIA
As soon as Frankie pulls away, I leave my fake address. The doorman’s looking at me strangely, but luckily there are so many people who live in the building that he can’t immediately write me off as a trespasser.
I hurry down the street, eager to get to my apartment to write everything down. I barge through the door, throwing my purse onto the kitchen counter. My laptop is right where I left it, in a bag by the table. I pull it out, open it up, and type.
I stay glued to the computer for more than an hour, trying to remember every detail of my conversation with Frankie.
He was more tight-lipped than I expected.
I thought for sure I could manage to get him drunk.
If I had just shown enough leg, if I had leaned into the conversation, I should have been able to get him to say something.
But mostly, he remained mute about his family’s affairs.
I’m surprised he slipped up and admitted his father is a billionaire.
At the time, I got very excited, thinking I was going to have a whole wealth of information to sort through.
But now that I’ve gotten it down on paper, I can see that there isn’t a lot to work with.
When I’m done, I take a shower and go to bed. In the morning, I drive back to the office to fill Mr. Harlan in on what happened.
“Did he say anything about the legitimate businesses that his father is involved in?” Mr. Harlan asks.
“No,” I admit.
“Did he say anything about their conflict with the Andretti family?” Mr. Harlan continues.
“No,” I reply.
“What about his stepmother?” Mr. Harlan asks. “We know she has a complicated past.”
“No,” I repeat myself. “He didn’t say much about his family at all.”
“All right,” Mr. Harlan says, looking away. “So, where are we?”
“Back at square one,” I complain.
I leave his office and go back to my cubicle. This thing with Frankie isn’t getting me anywhere. I was serious when I said we were back to square one. I need to review some of my notes and see if there are any new leads to follow up on.
Something Frankie said at dinner nags at me.
I think he mentioned real Italian cooking.
Maybe that means he has some experience in the restaurant business.
I start looking in the small business listings for the area.
There are tons of names, and no indication that any of them are owned by the Corellos.
I spend the entire day chasing my tail, only to discover a set of financial filings that might hold a clue.
But it’s late. I drive home and help myself to a beer.
Lonely nights like this make me think about Danny.
He should be the one following up on this story, not me.
He was the real journalist in the family.
It takes me three more days to uncover a single business that might be owned by Francisco Corello. It’s a restaurant, just like I thought. I walk into Mr. Harlan’s office triumphant, carrying a slip of paper over my head.
“You found something?” Mr. Harlan asks.
“Maybe,” I admit. “It’s a long shot, but I’d like to see where it leads.”
“Okay,” he agrees. “What do you need?”
“I’d like a photographer,” I say. “Someone who can take shots from a distance.”
“I know just the guy,” Mr. Harlan answers. “Give me a minute.”
I step outside and wait for him to make the call. After a moment, he waves me back in.
“Do you remember Mario Borsari?” My boss asks.
I think back. “Is he a freelancer?”
“Yes,” Mr. Harlan replies. “And he’s good. Here’s his number. He’s waiting for your call.”
I take the slip of paper from my boss’s hand and smile. “Thanks.”
“Be safe,” Mr. Harlan warns.
“Always,” I promise.
I walk back to my desk to call Mario from a landline. This is work, so I might as well call him from a work number.
“Hello?” Mario answers on the third ring.
“Hello, Mario?” I ask.
“Yes,” he confirms.
“This is Sofia Agosto. I work for the paper. I was wondering if you’re free to work on a story with me?” I hold my breath, hoping he’ll say yes.
“It’s been a while since I’ve done any investigative work,” he says. “Now I mostly do weddings and graduation photos.”
“It’s really important,” I say urgently. “You’ll be helping to bring down a major crime family.”
“I’m in,” he responds quickly. “When do you need me?”
“Can you meet me at Central Bites? It’s a restaurant over on Third Street,” I answer.
“Sure thing,” he says.
We hang up after working out some of the logistics. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I have a hunch that I’ll recognize it when I see it. I just want someone there who can document the comings and goings of various restaurant patrons, and who can back me up in a pinch.
I meet Mario the next day after I stop at a drive-thru for coffee.
He’s sitting in a 90s pickup truck parked across the street from the restaurant.
I’ve never been here before, and I don’t know my way around this part of the city.
I circle the block twice looking for a parking spot, and when I find one, it’s too far away for me to stay in my car.
I grab the coffee I bought for myself and one for Mario and hoof it to his truck.
He takes a picture of me as I approach, as if to prove that he’s a photographer.
I recognize him from the color of his vehicle and from what he’s wearing.
He told me he would be dressed in a green shirt and a black hat.
“Mario?” I ask before getting into the passenger seat.
“Sofia?” He guesses.
It looks like we found each other. I climb in and hand him a drink. He thanks me for it, removing a handful of trash from the cup holder so that both our drinks can fit.
“So, what are we looking for?” Mario asks.
“I think this restaurant is owned by the Corello family,” I say.
“And they are?” Mario wonders.
I’m not surprised he doesn’t know. Francisco Corello has done too good a job of keeping his name out of the papers.
But all that is going to change if I have anything to do with it.
I give Mario a synopsis of my theory about the Corellos, leaving out the fact that they murdered my brother.
I lean into their shady business dealings and my suspicions that they’re in bed with the mayor.
“Sounds serious,” Mario observes.
“If you can just take some pictures of people entering and leaving, then I can check them against known mafia figures to see if there is any connection,” I explain.
As I’m talking, a pair of dangerous-looking men walk up. I check my phone just to make sure I’m in the right place. Central Bites sounds like an upscale lunch place, but all the people I see are downright scary.
Mario leans over and takes a few quick shots before the men disappear inside. About twenty minutes later, they come out again. That was too short for a meal, but just long enough to have a conversation with someone.
I wonder what’s going on, and if there are any regular patrons in the joint. I don’t want to risk going in there myself. At some point, Mario’s pictures should show me everything I need to know about who is coming and going. I just need to be patient.
I hunch down in my seat and stare out the window. After about an hour, I get bored. While there are a few unsavory visitors, the place is largely quiet. I haven’t seen anyone who looks like a regular couple, but it’s not exactly the lunch rush, so I hold off on any conclusions.
I realize I’m going to have to go in there. I need to know what the place looks like from the inside and if it operates like a regular restaurant.
“I’m going in,” I tell Mario.
He looks at me funny, like I’ve said something crazy. “Why?”
“I have to know what it looks like inside,” I say.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks. He’s not exactly telling me I’m stupid, but he seems to hint at it.
“It’s a restaurant, right?” I explain. “I’ll just go in and order takeout.”
“Are you sure you want to show your face?” Mario puzzles.
I sigh. I don’t see any other way around it. I can’t just sit in the car all day watching sketchy looking men duck into and out of the place. I need to know what they’re doing, and the easiest way to do that is by going inside.
I’m reaching for the door handle when my phone buzzes. It’s Frankie. I’d forgotten all about him. Our dinner was nice, but we haven’t spoken to each other since. I get a weird tingly feeling all over at the sight of his name.
Frankie: Picnic lunch in the park?
My heart melts. Those are possibly the sweetest five words I’ve ever read.
I try to cover my reaction, but I can see that Mario knows something is up.
I tell myself that researching Frankie is just as important as finding the underlying cause of what’s going on at Central Bites.
Maybe even more important. Because Frankie can get me in to see Francisco, and that’s who makes the real decisions.
Francisco Corello will know who killed Danny, if he didn’t attend to it himself.
“Change of plans,” I announce.
“Picnic lunch in the park?” Mario reads.
I stuff my phone into my pocket, mortified that he knows. “That’s none of your business. It’s for the story.”
“Okay,” Mario agrees.
“Just stay here and get as many photos as you can,” I demand.
“Will do,” he says easily.
I climb out of his truck and hurry down the street, doing my best not to stare at the restaurant’s front door. I don’t want to look like I’m staking the place out, but it’s hard not to satisfy my curiosity. To distract myself, I pull out my phone and text Frankie back.
Me: Sounds wonderful. On my way.