Chapter 5 - The Name on the Delivery Sheet
The Moretti vehicle had been signed out by Matteo Ricci.
Dante’s cousin.
Not blood by name, but family in every other way.
Matteo’s mother had been Dante’s father’s younger sister. He and Dante had grown up together, fought together, buried parents together, and spent twenty years calling each other brother.
When Marco delivered the information, Dante did not react.
That frightened Marco more than anger would have.
“We need more than a vehicle log,” Dante said.
“I know.”
“Matteo could have loaned it.”
“I know.”
“Someone could have used his authorization.”
“I know.”
Dante looked toward the city outside his office.
“Then don’t bring me suspicion. Bring me proof.”
Marco hesitated.
“You want him watched?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know about Lena?”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“Everyone knows about Lena.”
Marco leaned against the desk.
“That’s becoming a problem.”
“For her.”
“For you too.”
Dante looked at him.
Marco shrugged.
“You spent eight years teaching everyone that you had no soft places.”
“She’s not a soft place.”
“Sure.”
“She saved my life.”
“And now you send her coffee.”
“That’s gratitude.”
“White roses?”
“Replacement inventory.”
“Ten-year lease?”
“She rejected the five-year one.”
Marco laughed.
Dante threw a pen at him.
At Bloom & Stems, Lena was trying to pretend the last two weeks had not happened.
It was not working.
Customers had noticed the black sedan that sometimes idled half a block away. Sophia had developed a habit of looking through the window before entering. Mr. Castigliano from the deli had offered Lena a baseball bat.
Then Mrs. Zielinski appeared with soup.
“You look thin.”
“I’m not.”
“You look worried.”
“I own a small business.”
“That is permanent worry.”
Lena smiled.
Mrs. Zielinski placed a hand over hers.
“Your grandmother used to say when trouble comes, feed it first. Hungry trouble is worse.”
“She said that?”
“No. I said it now. But she would agree.”
Lena laughed.
The old woman looked toward the roses.
“A man came asking about you yesterday.”
Lena froze.
“What man?”
“Handsome, but wrong in the eyes.”
“Older?”
“Forties. Scar.”
Vale.
“What did he ask?”
“How long you lived here. Whether you had family.”
Lena’s stomach turned.
“What did you tell him?”
“That Polish women have no family, only committees. Then I told him to buy kielbasa or leave.”
Lena grabbed her phone.
Dante arrived eleven minutes later.
Too fast.
He entered without an overcoat, tie loosened, Marco behind him.
“What exactly did Vale ask?”
Lena told him.
Dante’s face hardened.
“You’re not sleeping at your apartment tonight.”
She stared.
“Try again.”
He exhaled.
“Would you consider sleeping somewhere else tonight?”
“Better.”
“Hotel. Your choice.”
“No.”
“Lena.”
“If I run every time he appears, he learns that appearing works.”
“This isn’t pride.”
“No. It’s my life.”
Dante lowered his voice.
“He asked whether you have family.”
“I know.”
“That is escalation.”
“And you want to put me in a hotel registered under what name? Yours? Marco’s? A fake one? Then what? I spend every night wondering which lobby camera belongs to Vale?”
Dante looked frustrated because she was right.
Lena continued.
“My apartment has one stairwell and a fire escape. The Zielinskis are downstairs. Mr. Castigliano sees everything on the street. I know the building.”
Marco nodded reluctantly.
“She has a point.”
Dante turned.
“Whose side are you on?”
“The side where we don’t pretend safe houses are magic.”
Lena almost smiled.
Dante rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m adding cameras.”
“You’re asking.”
His eyes narrowed.
“May I add cameras?”
“Yes.”
“Motion sensor?”
“Yes.”
“Alarm?”
“Yes.”
“Guard?”
“No.”
“Lena.”
“One outside overnight. Plain clothes. I choose.”
“Fine.”
They shook on it.
That afternoon, while an installer added cameras to Lena’s apartment entrance, Sophia arrived carrying a garment bag.
“You’re coming to my gallery opening.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“People are trying to kill my landlord.”
“That sentence is why you need art.”
Lena laughed despite herself.
“I can’t.”
“You can. The gallery has security and free wine. Also, if you spend one more evening staring at camera feeds, you will become a conspiracy podcast.”
Dante heard about the opening because Lena told him directly.
“I’m going out tonight.”
“Okay.”
“That’s all?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I expected a lecture.”
“I’m learning.”
She smiled.
“With Sophia. Greenpoint. Public gallery.”
“Have fun.”
“You hate this.”
“Deeply.”
“Goodnight, Dante.”
At the gallery, Lena almost remembered her old life.
She drank half a glass of white wine, admired photographs she did not understand, and laughed while Sophia explained why a six-foot sculpture made of plastic forks represented capitalism.
Then Lena saw Matteo Ricci.
She knew him from photographs Marco had shown her after the vehicle discovery.
He stood near the rear bar in a navy suit, speaking to a woman Lena recognized from Moretti Urban’s property office.
Matteo looked up.
Their eyes met.
He smiled politely.
Too politely.
Lena’s pulse changed.
Sophia followed her gaze.
“Who’s that?”
“Family problem.”
“Yours?”
“Dante’s.”
Matteo approached.
“Ms. Kowalska.”
“You know me.”
“Brooklyn is small.”
“It’s really not.”
He smiled.
“Dante talks about you.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“More than he realizes.”
Sophia stepped closer.
Matteo extended a hand.
“Matteo Ricci.”
Sophia did not take it.
“I’m suspicious by nature.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Lena’s skin prickled.
“How would you have heard?”
Matteo’s smile paused.
Only half a second.
Enough.
Then a waiter dropped a tray across the room.
Everyone looked.
When Lena turned back, Matteo was already walking away.
She called Dante.
He answered on the first ring.
“Everything okay?”
“I’m at the gallery.”
“I remember.”
“Matteo is here.”
Silence.
“What did he say?”
She repeated the conversation.
Dante’s voice went cold.
“Leave.”
She did not argue.
Sophia grabbed her coat.
They exited through the front.
Outside, rain had started.
A black town car pulled toward the curb.
Not theirs.
Marco appeared from the corner with two men.
“Inside,” he said.
Lena stopped.
“How did you get here so fast?”
Marco opened the SUV door.
“We were nearby.”
“You were following me.”
“Dante was learning. I wasn’t.”
She glared.
Then a sharp crack split the night.
The gallery window shattered.
Marco shoved Lena down behind the SUV.
People screamed.
A second crack.
Sophia dropped beside her.
“Was that a gun?”
“Yes.”
Across the street, a figure disappeared between parked cars.
Marco’s men moved.
Lena looked at her own arm.
A thin line of blood marked the sleeve where glass had cut her.
Not a bullet.
Close enough.
Her phone rang.
Dante.
She answered.
“I’m okay.”
His voice came rough.
“Lena.”
“I’m okay.”
Another pause.
May you like
Then, very quietly, he said, “I’m coming.”
This time, she did not tell him not to.
