Chapter 7: What Vincent Caruso Wanted
Vincent Caruso's lawyer was a man named Gerald Fitch — sixty years old, silver-haired, the kind of careful that comes from representing dangerous people for three decades without ever becoming one himself.
He arrived at my office on a Friday morning carrying a leather briefcase and the practiced calm of someone who had rehearsed the first five minutes of this conversation several times.
I let him sit.
I let him set the briefcase on the table.
I let him open it and remove a single folder.
Then I said, "Tell me what Vincent wants."
Fitch looked up.
He'd expected more preamble.
"Mr.
Caruso believes that recent events have created an opportunity for a new arrangement between your organizations."
"Recent events," I said.
"You mean Marco."
"Mr.
Caruso is aware that your organization has experienced some internal — restructuring."
"Marco Bianchi attempted to have me kjlled," I said.
"That's not restructuring.
That's a problem that has been resolved."
Fitch's expression didn't change, but his hands moved slightly on the folder.
"Mr.
Caruso's position is that the instability created by that situation—"
"There is no instability."
"—creates a natural moment for a conversation about territorial boundaries and shared—"
"Gerald." I said his first name deliberately.
He stopped.
"Vincent sent Marco to me twenty years ago.
Did you know that?"
Fitch said nothing.
"Marco came to my father as a recommendation from Caruso.
A gesture of goodwill, it was called.
My father trusted him.
I trusted him." I paused.
"How long has Marco been reporting to Vincent?"
"I'm not in a position to—"
"How long?"
Fitch closed the folder.
His composure was good, but not good enough.
"I represent Mr.
Caruso's legal interests.
I'm not privy to—"
"You've been his lawyer for thirty-one years," I said.
"You're privy to everything." I leaned forward.
"Here is what you're going to tell Vincent.
Marco is gone.
Whatever arrangement he had with your client is gone with him.
Any territory Vincent believes he was promised does not exist.
Any agreements made in that restaurant on Mulberry are void." I sat back.
"And if Vincent would like to discuss what happens next, he can come himself.
Not his lawyer.
Not a message.
Him."
Fitch looked at me for a long moment.
Then he picked up the folder, placed it back in the briefcase, and closed the latch.
"I'll convey your position," he said.
"I know you will."
He stood.
Moved toward the door.
Then stopped.
"Mr.
Moretti." He turned.
His voice had changed — quieter, something underneath the professional surface.
"I've known Vincent Caruso for thirty-one years.
You're correct about that." A pause.
"He's not going to come himself.
He's going to send someone else instead.
Someone you won't see coming." He held my gaze for one moment.
"I thought you should know that."
Then he left.
I sat with that for a moment.
Then I called Dante.
"Fitch just left," I said.
"I want eyes on Caruso's building starting tonight.
Everyone who goes in and out.
Every car.
Every face."
"Done.
Boss — there's something else."
"Tell me."
"Marco's been talking.
From wherever he is, he's been talking.
Word is getting out about the daughter.
About Elena." A pause.
"People know she exists."
I closed my eyes for exactly two seconds.
"How wide?"
"Wide enough that Caruso probably knows."
I thought about the light in the third-floor window.
Sofia on the bench with mustard on her chin.
Elena's hand on the counter, steadying herself.
"Move them," I said.
"Tonight.
Somewhere Caruso's people can't find in less than a week."
"Already arranged," Dante said.
"I took the liberty."
"Good."
"Boss." A pause.
"The surgery is in nine days."
Nine days.
"I know," I said.
I hung up and looked out the window at Fifth Avenue below.
The city moved the way it always moved — indifferent, continuous, full of people who had no idea what was happening in the rooms above them.
Somewhere in that city, a six-year-old girl with gray-green eyes was being moved to a safer address because her existence had become a vulnerability in a war she didn't know was being fought.
May you like
She had saved my life on a sidewalk.
And now I had made her a target.
