Chapter 5: The Place You Know
Dante went alone.
He told no one except Caruso, and what he told Caruso was only this: the address, the time, and a single instruction — *If I'm not back by midnight, you know what to do.*
Caruso had nodded without asking what that meant.
After eleven years, he didn't need to.
The place was a restaurant in the old part of the city — a narrow room with dark wood paneling, a bar along one wall, and eight tables that were never all occupied at the same time.
It had belonged to their father.
After he died, it passed to a cousin who kept it running without asking too many questions about who came and went.
Renzo was already there when Dante arrived.
Seated at the corner table.
A glass of red wine in front of him, barely touched.
He looked older than Dante remembered — not by years, but by something else.
Something that lived behind the eyes.
Dante sat down across from him without a word.
A waiter appeared.
Dante ordered nothing.
The waiter left.
"You came," Renzo said.
"I'm here."
"I wasn't sure you would."
"I almost didn't." Dante looked at his brother's face.
"You sent Javier into my home.
Into a yard full of my family and my people.
He put his hands on Leo.
He put his hands on Mia."
Renzo's expression didn't change.
"That wasn't supposed to happen."
"Then what was supposed to happen?"
"He was supposed to deliver a message."
"By putting my son face-down on the lawn."
Renzo looked down at his glass.
"He exceeded his instructions."
"Then you chose the wrong man to carry your message." Dante leaned forward slightly.
"Or you chose the right man and you're sitting here telling me a comfortable story."
Renzo looked up.
"I didn't come here to fight you, Dante."
"Then why did you come?"
"Because something is happening that you don't know about yet.
And if you don't know about it, it will reach your children before it reaches you."
The room was quiet.
Somewhere near the bar, a glass was set down.
"Talk," Dante said.
Renzo turned his wine glass once, slowly.
"Three months ago, a man named Sutter came to see me.
American.
Connected to a financial group operating out of Geneva.
He had information — detailed information — about the organization's holdings.
Port contracts.
Property transfers.
Shell accounts." He paused.
"Things that should not have been possible for an outsider to know."
Dante said nothing.
"He told me the information came from inside." Renzo met his brother's eyes.
"From someone close to you."
"He gave you a name?"
"He gave me enough to narrow it down." Renzo reached into his jacket and placed a folded envelope on the table between them.
"It's all in there.
What Sutter showed me.
What I've been able to confirm since."
Dante looked at the envelope.
He didn't touch it.
"Why didn't you come to me directly?" he said.
"Three months ago.
Why Javier?
Why the gate?
Why the performance?"
Renzo was quiet for a moment.
"Because the name," he said slowly, "is someone you trust completely."
The candle on the table between them threw a small, steady light.
Dante looked at his brother.
"And you thought if you came to me directly," Dante said, "I wouldn't believe you."
"Would you have?"
May you like
Dante didn't answer.
He reached out and picked up the envelope.
