CHAPTER TEN
ADRIAN
Enzo Bellini lies before the appetizers.
He does it badly.
The dinner takes place in a private room above Bellini Social, an old restaurant near the river with red leather booths and photographs of men who paid to appear important.
Nora sits beside me in a black dress with long sleeves.
The fabric covers the healing burn on her forearm. A narrow belt defines her waist. Her hair falls loose around her jaw because she did not have time, or patience, to pin it.
She wears the wedding ring. She has touched it four times since we arrived.
Not affection.
Awareness.
Enzo sits across from us with Celeste’s aunt Teresa and two Bellini advisers. Tommaso arrives twelve minutes late. He claims traffic. His driver used the route I provided only an hour ago. The same route now known to Nora, Malik, Gianna, and me.
No one else. I watch him take his seat.
“Why are we here?” Enzo asks.
“To discuss what your daughter knew,” Nora says.
He looks at her.
“Which daughter?”
The question leaves his mouth before judgment reaches it. Nora sets down her water.
“Thank you for clarifying the problem.”
Teresa closes her eyes briefly. Enzo rubs his forehead.
“I meant Celeste.”
“I know.”
He looks at me for help. I do not provide it. Dinner is served. No one eats. Nora places a copy of the Ellis ledger on the table.
“Celeste investigated these companies.”
Enzo’s gaze drops to the page. His reaction is too small. That is often more revealing than surprise.
“You recognize them,” Nora says.
“No.”
“You looked at Northline before reading the other names.”
“I know Northline.”
“From where?”
“Carbone subsidiary.”
“That became public after the shooting.”
Tommaso reaches for wine.
“Enzo has business contacts.”
Nora turns to him.
“I asked Enzo.”
Tommaso smiles. “And I answered.”
“That habit must make confession exhausting.”
Enzo pushes the ledger away.
“Celeste asked questions about payments.”
“When?” Nora asks.
“A few weeks ago.”
“What questions?”
“Vendor invoices. Security expenses. I told her to stay out of it.”
“Why?”
“Because it was dangerous.”
“You knew it was dangerous.”
“I knew the families were negotiating.”
“That is not an answer.”
His face tightens.
“She believed someone was moving money through companies connected to both sides.”
“Who?”
“She did not know.”
“Did she mention Lucas Ferraro?”
Enzo looks at Tommaso.
There.
Again.
Nora sees it.
“Why do you keep looking at him?” she asks.
“I do not.”
“You did.”
Tommaso places his glass down.
“Lucas was an accountant.”
“For whom?” Nora asks.
“My division.”
The answer comes too easily.
“You knew him,” I say.
“Of course.”
“You said nothing when Nora mentioned his name yesterday.”
“No one asked me.”
Nora leans back.
“That is technically true.”
Tommaso turns toward her. “You prefer accusation to evidence.”
“I prefer people who volunteer information before the evidence corners them.”
“He disappeared four days ago,” I say.
“I heard this morning.”
“From whom?”
“Finance.”
“Name.”
He gives one.
Samuel Park.
The compliance officer Gianna selected for the audit.
Possible.
I will confirm. Nora returns to Enzo.
“Celeste met Lucas.”
“I did not know.”
“She left his ring in the bridal suite.”
Enzo’s surprise appears genuine.
“Were they involved?”
“No,” Nora says.
“You do not know that.”
“She would not use another man’s ring as a romantic symbol while leaving me financial codes.”
Teresa speaks for the first time.
“Celeste was afraid.”
Everyone looks at her. Nora’s expression changes.
“When did she tell you?”
“Wednesday.”
“What did she say?”
“That the wedding could not be canceled.”
The same instruction she left Nora.
“Why?” I ask.
Teresa folds her napkin.
“She said the person moving the money needed the families to blame each other. If the wedding failed, the fighting would begin before anyone examined the accounts.”
Tommaso’s voice remains mild.
“Why did she not tell us?”
“She did not know whom to trust.”
His eyes move toward Nora. The implication is clear. Celeste trusted the sister outside both families. Enzo looks toward the windows.
“What else?” Nora asks Teresa.
“She asked me to keep you away from the west entrance.”
“Why?”
“I do not know.”
“You followed the instruction?”
“Yes.”
Nora nods slowly. Celeste arranged seating, vendors, routes, and witnesses. Not one code.
A network.
Enzo reaches for his drink.
“You should have told me.”
Teresa looks at him with open contempt.
“You would have told whoever frightened you most.”
His hand stops. Nora does not smile. This is not a victory. It is confirmation. A server enters to clear the untouched first course. He leans toward Tommaso.
“The drivers want confirmation on the route change.”
Malik, positioned near the wall, looks at me. Nora turns toward the server.
“What route change?”
The server freezes.
Tommaso answers.
“The east approach is blocked. I asked that the guest vehicles use Canal Street.”
Nora’s gaze sharpens. “The same closure story used at Belladonna.”
“Who told you it was blocked?” I ask.
“Restaurant security.”
Malik speaks into his radio.
“No closure reported.”
Tommaso’s face remains composed.
“The information may have been incorrect.”
“When did you receive it?” Nora asks.
“Before I arrived.”
“From whom?”
“My driver.”
Malik contacts the exterior team. Malik goes rigid.
“Stop all vehicles.”
Outside, engines start.
I stand.
The sedan carrying two Bellini advisers exits the alley. A maintenance truck is parked across Canal Street.
Wrong angle.
Nora sees it through the window.
“Get down.”
The explosion strikes before the words finish. Glass bows inward. The room becomes white light and pressure. I hit the floor.
Sound disappears.
My left shoulder collides with the edge of the table. Plates fall. Someone screams without volume. I turn toward Nora. She is no longer beside me. For one second, I cannot see her. Then she rises from beneath the table, blood on her sleeve.
I move toward her. Malik is already at the window, weapon drawn, issuing commands I hear only as broken syllables. Smoke fills the alley. The maintenance truck burns. The first sedan has struck the opposite wall. Its rear doors hang open.
Nora presses one hand to her upper arm.
“Where are you hit?”
“I’m not.”
“Move your hand.”
She studies me. “Nora.”
She removes it. A cut runs along the outside of her left arm, below the sleeve. Glass, not a bullet. Blood flows steadily but not violently. I take a cloth napkin and press it against the wound.
She flinches.
“Hold this.”
“I can hold my own arm.”
“Then hold it.”
She does.
I move to the window. Armed men emerge from the parking structure across the alley. Malik’s team returns fire. Guests are moved through the kitchen. Tommaso lies behind an overturned chair, unharmed. Enzo crawls toward Teresa. A second blast does not come.
The first was intended to disable the lead vehicles and force us into the alley. The gunmen expected us to follow the planned route. Nora points through the smoke.
“Maintenance truck.”
“I see it.”
“The logo.”
Black letters on white metal. Lakeshore Facility Services. One of the eleven vendors. The waste-removal invoice.
Table Eight.
Malik’s men force the attackers back into the parking structure. A dark vehicle exits from the far side. Too distant to stop. Nora pulls my attention toward the sedan.
“The advisers.”
“Alive,” Malik says. “Driver injured.”
He glances at Nora’s arm.
“Medical team downstairs.”
“I’m fine,” she says.
“No,” Malik and I say together.
She looks between us.
“This family is becoming repetitive.”
Tommaso stands slowly.
“Bellini men knew the route.”
“No,” Nora says.
He turns to her.
“The server said you changed it.”
“He said you changed it.”
“I passed along information.”
“Information from your driver.”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
Tommaso looks toward the alley.
Malik checks.
The driver is gone. His vehicle remains. The route was not compromised after the meeting. It was prepared before Tommaso arrived. I press my fingers against the edge of the table to stop my injured hand from closing.
Tommaso notices.
“You think I arranged this.”
“I think your driver needs to be found.”
“He has worked for me twelve years.”
“That did not answer the question.”
Nora’s voice is weaker now. Blood has soaked through the napkin. I step toward her. She sways once. Not enough for anyone else to see. Enough for me. I take her uninjured arm.
“Do not.”
“You are losing blood.”
“I am walking.”
“To the physician.”
“I need the truck photographed before the fire destroys the logo.”
“Malik has it.”
“I need the route records.”
“Gianna has them.”
“I need—”
“To stop.”
Her eyes lift to mine. Anger keeps them focused. Fear waits beneath it. Not of the injury. Of being removed from the work.
“If you carry me,” she says quietly, “I will make the scene worse.”
“I was not going to carry you.”
“You considered it.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t.”
I look toward the kitchen exit.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
“Without lying?”
She pauses.
“Yes.”
Better.
I keep one hand near her back without touching as we leave. The physician works in a small office downstairs. The cut is six centimeters long and filled with glass fragments. He cleans it while Nora watches the security footage on Malik’s tablet.
“Look away,” the physician says.
“No.”
“You may feel faint.”
“I coordinate cake tastings.”
He meets my eyes. I do not explain.
Six stitches.
No muscle damage.
Antibiotic ointment.
Tetanus current.
She refuses stronger pain medication and accepts ibuprofen. When the physician finishes, Malik enters with the first report.
“The maintenance truck was stolen yesterday. Original GPS unit removed.”
“Driver?” I ask.
“Tommaso’s driver used a false name when hired. Apartment cleared.”
Tommaso’s face appears at the open door. He has changed jackets. Smoke darkens one cuff.
“This proves someone infiltrated my staff.”
“It proves someone knew the route,” Nora says.
He looks at her bandaged arm.
“I am sorry you were injured.”
“I will invoice the responsible party.”
His mouth moves without humor.
Malik continues.
“The attackers used the same temporary radio frequency as wedding security.”