Finch gives a little huff of laughter. “Oh, you’re here to stay, baby. Not even bullets and arson could stop you.”
I smile at him and grab his hand on my way past to the stairs. “Let’s get out of here.”
Vitali is waiting upstairs with a nervous look on his face. “Don’t blame Teo,” Finch tells me casually, before I can say anything. “I go where I want, honey. You of all people should know that.”
“I do.” It’s another reason I’m more comfortable with Finch’s request for a true partnership. Those reasons have been coming thick and fast. His reaction to Tino’s video; the logical argument he made to me about getting more involved; and my own certainty that the best way to protect my husband is to ensure he can protect himself.
We’re just at the front door again when I think twice and say, “Vitali—take Finch out to the car. I’ll just be a moment.” I go back upstairs, and only once I’m at the top of the stairs do I remember I’m still not supposed to be going up and down them alone.
Ah, well. Too late now.
I go into the library and search along the shelves. Despite Tino’s eclectic shelving system, I discover the book I’m seeking very quickly: Machiavelli’sThe Prince. I pull it out of its place and turn to leave. In the doorway of the library, I glance behind me. “I’ll do better, Don Morelli,” I murmur, as though his ghost might hear me.
As I make my way down the stairs again, I could swear I hear Tino Morelli’s warm chuckle of approval. When I come out onto the street, back into the reality of a city struggling in my grasp, I can only hope Tino might use any ghostly powers he has to reveal the meaning of that note from Finch’s mother.
Because I still have no idea what it means.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
LUCA
There are so many possibilities in the contents of Tino’s secret safe that I’m starting to think the note from Finch’s mother might not even be the most important find. Finch and I spread everything across the bed once we return to the brownstone, puzzling over all of them.
Most of the photographs are self-explanatory: blackmail material. Not all of the people are immediately known to me, but I can ask Angelo to identify some of them. At least two of them are dead already, but the rest might yield results.
And one person in particular could be very useful. The photographs show a man known to me, high-ranked in the Italian branch of the Clemenza Family, but it’s the woman with him in whom I’m interested. Known only as “La Contessa,” she is an enigmatic figure in Italy who has a lot of influence in many areas: political, social, business.
And she happens to be the Italian stakeholder who objected to my buying up controlling stock of a particular company several months back. These photographs give me leverage. If I can persuade La Contessa to my way of thinking and gain a majority share in that company, I could destroy the foundations of Louis Clemenza’s wealth.
I put the pictures aside for now. Other documents in the stash included letters of correspondence—Tino’s equivalent of memorandums of understanding, agreements, contracts that would never be upheld in a court of law. Looking through them, I can see there must have been many people relieved to hear of Tino’s death.
I don’t like the kind of business some of these documents suggest. I’ve been at pains to move the Family into more legitimate streams of moneymaking. But they are, undeniably, useful. I won’t destroy them—not right away.
But Finch is impatient to get back to the main event. “I don’t understand what itmeans,” he says, shoving his mother’s note at my face again.
I take it from him and reread it myself, if only to calm him.
T,
In another life, things might have been different.
If anything happens to me, use this and the power of prayer. You know I always keep God close.
O.
Under her signature is a string of numbers.
“What does itmean?” Finch demands.
“I don’t know,” I tell him, for the fifth or sixth time. “Baby bird, please—we’ll figure it out.” I’ve never seen him so enraged at an inanimate object, although I understand it. Long after my own mother died, I came across several letters sent to her by one of her friends, and for a moment she lived again, because there was something new to be discovered. I suspect Finch had high hopes for whatever was in this note. A short, cryptically religious message and a set of numbers must be a letdown.
He’s a little wild-eyed, his hair standing up at odd angles, and as he prowls the room, his stomach growls. “Ugh,” he says, pressing his middle. We both skipped lunch today.
“Let’s go down and have dinner,” I suggest, “and after that, we’ll call Tara.”
His head snaps up. “Yes. That’s agreatidea. Tara might have some idea—” He’s already fumbling with his phone, until I put my hand over it.
“Angel,” I say as gently as I can, “let’s eat first. It’ll help us think.”
