This is going to be a fucking disaster.
Patterson is dirty, but he's connected. And from what Rafe discovered this morning, he's been taking money from a rival family—one that orchestrated an attack on Matteo's operations last year. An attack that killed ten people. Not just soldiers. Wives. A kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Matteo's been looking for who gave them inside information ever since.
And now I have the answer.
The rage that thought triggers is cold and controlled. The kind I prefer. Women and children stay out of it—that's the rule. Has been the rule for much longer than I've been in this business. You want to kill soldiers? Fine. Occupational hazard. But families are off-limits.
Patterson broke that rule. And now he's going to pay.
I head upstairs to change, passing Bianca's door without stopping. She needs time to compose herself. So do I.
Twenty minutes later, I'm in a fresh suit—charcoal gray, white shirt, no tie—when I hear a knock.
"Come in."
Bianca enters, and I have to consciously keep my expression neutral.
She's wearing a simple black dress—knee-length, modest neckline, nothing like the gown from earlier. Her hair is down like I asked, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. Minimal makeup. The gold cross at her throat.
She looks elegant. Understated. Exactly right for what we need tonight.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Do I have a choice?"
"No."
"Then I guess I'm ready." She rolls her eyes. "What's this dinner about? Really?"
"Business. A politician who needs reminding of his obligations."
"That sounds ominous."
"It's politics. It's always ominous." I grab my keys. "Come on. Tony's waiting."
The drive into Manhattan is quiet. Bianca stares out the window, and I leave her to her thoughts. I need to focus on what's coming. On Patterson and how far I'm willing to push tonight.
Del Posto is busy for a Tuesday night, all white tablecloths and ambient lighting. The maître d' recognizes me immediately.
"Mr. Vitale. Your table is ready."
Patterson is already there with his wife Nancy—a blonde woman in her fifties with too much Botox and a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. They stand as we approach.
"Dante!" Patterson extends his hand. I shake it, applying just enough pressure to make a point. "And this must be your lovely girlfriend."
"Bianca Mancini." I rest my hand on the small of her back. "Bianca, this is Congressman Michael Patterson and his wife Nancy."
"It's so nice to meet you both," Bianca says, and her smile is perfect. Warm but not excessive. The kind that puts people at ease.
She's a natural.
We settle into our seats, order drinks—water for me, wine for the others—and begin the dance.
Nancy dominates the conversation at first, asking Bianca about her work. Bianca handles it beautifully, talking about teaching with genuine enthusiasm. She's charming. Funny. She tells a story about a student who brought their pet hamster for show-and-tell that has Nancy laughing.
I watch Patterson watching her. And with each minute I can see him relaxing. Letting his guard down.
