Chapter 14 - Salvatore’s Table

Salvatore was arrested at a private airfield outside Naples.

Matteo learned the news while sitting in Miriam’s kitchen.

Miriam had invited him without asking Natasha.

When Natasha complained, Miriam said, “It is my kitchen.”

That ended the argument.

“He’ll be extradited?” Natasha asked.

Matteo nodded.

“Eventually.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I wanted to ask him why.”

Miriam placed soup in front of him.

“No.”

He looked up.

“No what?”

“You wanted an answer that would make twelve years make sense.”

Matteo stared at her.

Miriam sat.

“You won’t get one.”

“You seem certain.”

“I was married forty-three years. Certainty is the reward for surviving other people.”

Natasha smiled into her bowl.

Matteo did too.

Then Elena arrived.

The smile disappeared.

For a moment, she and Matteo simply looked at each other.

He stood.

“I can leave.”

“No,” Elena said. “Sit.”

He did.

She placed a folder on the table.

“My resignation.”

“I already accepted it.”

“This is the formal version.”

Matteo took it.

“I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“I wish I had known about Sofia.”

“I know.”

“I would have—”

Elena raised a hand.

“Do not tell me what you would have done.”

He stopped.

“That is a fantasy where you get to be better before you were better.”

Natasha watched him absorb it.

Elena continued.

“You did not alter Sofia’s score. But your family’s money made the machine possible.”

“Yes.”

“You profited from companies that moved the money.”

“Yes.”

“You gave records to the FBI.”

“Yes.”

“All of those things are true.”

“Yes.”

Elena sat.

“I do not know what forgiveness looks like.”

“I am not asking for it.”

“Good.”

Miriam served her soup.

Elena blinked. “What is this?”

“Dinner.”

“I didn’t say I was staying.”

“You sat down.”

Apparently that ended that argument too.

Halfway through dinner, Brooks called Natasha.

Richard wanted to speak with her through counsel.

“No.”

Brooks said, “Understood.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Natasha looked at her phone after the call ended.

For six years, no had been a negotiation.

Now it was a sentence.

She almost smiled.

Matteo noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Miriam said, “She said no to somebody.”

Natasha frowned. “How do you know?”

“You have the face.”

“What face?”

“The face your mother made when telemarketers called.”

The room quieted at the mention of her mother.

Then Natasha laughed.

It felt good.

Later, Matteo asked if he could speak to her on the porch.

She agreed.

He held a folded letter.

“Luca’s?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to show me.”

“I know.”

He handed it over anyway.

The final paragraph read:

If you survive me, do not inherit Dad’s reasons. He will tell you everything he did was for family. Men like us use family the way governments use flags. We wave it over things we would be ashamed to name plainly.

Natasha read it twice.

“He was smart.”

“He was annoying.”

“They can coexist.”

“He would have liked you.”

“Do not turn your dead brother into a matchmaker.”

Matteo laughed.

A real laugh.

It changed his face.

Natasha handed the letter back.

“What happens to your businesses?”

“I am selling the port interests and closing anything that cannot survive an audit.”

“That easy?”

“No.”

“People will be angry.”

“Yes.”

“Dangerous people?”

“Yes.”

“Are you safe?”

He looked at her.

“Safer than I deserve.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“You are terrible at receiving your own medicine.”

“I am discovering that.”

He leaned against the porch rail.

“What happens to you?”

Natasha looked toward Miriam’s garden.

“I reopen my restoration studio.”

“You had one?”

“Before Richard.”

“What was it called?”

“Voss & Stone.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“It was broke.”

“Better.”

She smiled.

“I have two old clients who said they’d come back.”

“And the museum?”

“I may consult.”

“Miami?”

“For now.”

He nodded.

No offer of a new apartment.

No promise of protection.

No attempt to insert himself.

She appreciated the absence.

Matteo said, “There is something else.”

“What?”

“Your father’s briefcase.”

Natasha turned.

“What about it?”

“My father had it.”

Her blood chilled.

“How do you know?”

“Marco Bell identified it in a photograph from Salvatore’s storage.”

“Where?”

“A warehouse in Palermo.”

“Is it still there?”

“Italian police searched it this morning.”

“And?”

“They found the briefcase.”

Natasha stopped breathing.

Matteo continued.

“It contains your father’s notebooks.”

Her eyes filled.

“When do I get them?”

“As soon as they clear evidence review.”

She looked away.

Nine years.

She had wanted an answer.

Instead she was getting his handwriting.

His unfinished thoughts.

Proof that he had existed in days she never knew about.

Matteo said, “There may be things in those notebooks you do not want to read.”

Natasha wiped her cheek.

“I know.”

“You do not have to read them alone.”

She looked at him.

“Was that an offer?”

“Yes.”

“Not a decision?”

“No.”

She nodded.

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“Good.”

For now, that was enough.