She lives off our parents, my brother Anthony said to his inner circle in the back room of the port tavern.
The street leading to Frank Moretti’s residence was quiet, tree-lined, and deceptively ordinary. No imposing gates or flashing lights. Just a large, well-maintained brick house, indistinguishable from its neighbors, save for the subtle presence of two very watchful men near the front gate.
I parked a block away, killed the engine, and just sat for a moment. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of charcoal from a distant backyard barbecue. The mundane sounds of a neighborhood at peace felt jarringly out of place.
I got out, the manila envelope clutched in my hand. My movements were slow, deliberate. Every step felt heavy, each one a testament to the weight of my loss.
As I approached the low iron gate, one of the men detached himself from the shadows. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes that missed nothing. Moretti’s chief lieutenant, I recognized him. Carlo.
He stepped directly into my path. His hand, heavy and scarred, rested on the gate. “Can I help you, ma’am?” His voice was low, devoid of any warmth.
I looked at him, my face a blank mask. I didn’t speak. I didn’t utter a single word. My throat felt thick, choked with ash and grief.
Slowly, deliberately, I held out the envelope.
Carlo’s eyes flickered to the envelope, then back to my face. He saw the soot-stained clothes, the exhaustion, the raw grief that must have been etched on my features. He hesitated for a moment, a subtle shift in his otherwise impassive demeanor.
He took the envelope. His fingers brushed mine, and I felt nothing but the cold paper.
He glanced at the plain, unmarked envelope, then back at me, a silent question in his eyes. He expected me to speak, to make a request, to state my business. Everyone did.
I simply stared at him, my eyes holding a universe of unspoken devastation. My silence was not an absence of words; it was a wall of unutterable pain. There was nothing left to say. The papers inside spoke volumes.
Carlo’s gaze softened, just a fraction. He nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his head. He seemed to understand that no words were coming.
He turned, the envelope now a part of him, and walked back towards the house. The other guard, who had remained watchful, shifted slightly, but said nothing.
I watched Carlo disappear inside. The gate remained open for a moment, then swung silently shut. I turned and walked back to my car, leaving only silence in my wake. Inside that envelope was absolute proof that Salerno had not only lied to the commission, but that Anthony’s recklessness and Salerno’s vengeance had caused the death of a child.
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