Chapter 4

Seven days after Marco’s death, Joey found Alessandro.

"Vincent wants to see you," Joey said. There was a note of something akin to approval in his voice that Alessandro hadn’t expected. "Alone."

Alessandro followed Joey through the narrow streets of the North District until they reached a red-brick building.

This was the true heart of the Calvino family’s stronghold—an underground private club with no sign at the entrance, only a green wall lamp that burned year-round. Joey told Alessandro to wait at the door while he went inside to announce his arrival. Five minutes later, the door opened.

The basement was more spacious than Alessandro had imagined.

The ceiling was low, and exposed heating pipes covered in a fine layer of condensation snaked along the walls.

In the center of the room stood a long, dark wooden table on which sat an open bottle of red wine and two glasses. More images of the Virgin Mary were hung on the walls, alongside an old photograph of Sicily showing a stern-faced elderly woman standing in front of an olive tree. The silver frame of the photograph cast a dull sheen under the light.

But what surprised him most was that someone else was in the room.

Elena Martini sat at the far end of the table with her back against the wall and her hands folded in her lap.

She hadn’t tied her hair back today, and her dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, making her face appear even more gaunt and angular.

In front of her sat a cup of cold coffee with a thin layer of congealed oil on the surface. She looked up at Alessandro. Her gaze was not scrutinizing. It could not even be called an observation.

It was more like an instinctive, thoughtless scan, much like radar sweeping an airspace in the dark to detect anomalous objects.

Rosa Valente stood behind Elena, her back against the wall and her arms crossed over her chest.

She wore dark work pants and a men’s jacket, and her short hair was even shorter than last time, almost flush with her scalp. She held neither an apple nor a knife, but her fingers twitched involuntarily—her thumb repeatedly rubbing the side of her index finger like someone trying to quit smoking who craves nicotine.

Vincent sat at one end of the table, jacketless, wearing only a dark gray shirt with the cuffs rolled above his wrists. A document lay spread out before him.

He didn’t look up when he heard footsteps but simply pointed to the chair across from him.

Alessandro sat down. He could feel Rosa’s gaze on the back of his neck as if a thin blade were pressed against it.

Silence fell.

The only sounds in the basement were the rush of water through the heating pipes and the faint rustling of Rosa’s fingers as she ran them over the document's surface.

Vincent finally set the document aside and looked up. He looked more relaxed than when they’d last met—or rather, dangerously relaxed. He was like a large feline that had retracted its claws and fangs after confirming the area was safe; yet, its muscles remained taut, ready to pounce at any moment.

“Before Marco died,” Vincent began, “I asked him what he thought of Costa.”

Alessandro didn’t move.

“Do you know what Marco said?”

“I don’t know.”

Vincent lifted his glass of red wine and took a sip. “He said, ‘This guy operates too cleanly.’”

“What does that mean?”

Vincent set his glass down and ran his finger slowly around the rim. Behind him, Elena shifted—just a slight adjustment to her posture—but Alessandro noticed her right hand move from her knee to the tabletop.

“Marco’s a smart guy,” Vincent said.

"He said you're learning too fast. He’s worked at the docks for twenty years and has never seen anyone figure out all the ins and outs in three months without making a mistake.”

He looked up and fixed his gaze on Alessandro. "You never make mistakes, Costa. That, in itself, is a mistake.”

Alessandro felt a chill rise from the base of his spine.

His facial muscles remained completely still—more than two years of training and over half a year of living in disguise had made this second nature—but his heart was racing.

He could see Rosa out of the corner of his eye. She had stopped running her fingers over the surface and had become completely still. That stillness was more unsettling than any movement.

"I've made mistakes in Chicago," he said.

"Is that so?"

"I trusted the wrong person. That’s why I took a Greyhound bus halfway across the country to run errands for someone at the docks in New Haven.”

Vincent stared at him for a long time.

His deep brown eyes became precision instruments once again, dissecting every subtle shift in Alessandro’s expression and examining each one in turn.

Then, surprising Alessandro, Vincent suddenly turned to Elena.

“What do you think?”

Elena was silent for a few seconds. When she finally spoke, her voice rang out in the basement for the first time. It was low and hoarse with a thick Sicilian accent, like coarse salt soaked in seawater.

“His hand.”

Everyone’s gaze fell on Alessandro’s hand.

"His hands aren't what you'd expect from someone who's been collecting debts on the streets for two years," Elena said, her voice completely flat. "Let me see them."

Alessandro held out both hands, resting them flat on the table with his palms facing up. He tried his best to keep his breathing steady.

Elena stood up, walked around the table, and approached him. Her steps were light, almost silent. She bent down, examined his palms closely, and then spoke.

"The inside of your index finger. There’s a callus. Caused by repeated friction.”

She straightened up and turned to Vincent.

"You use a gun frequently."