“Frankie,” I go on. “Francisco Corello’s son. I’ve developed a sort of friendship with him.”
“Corello's only son, correct?” Harlan clarifies.
“That’s right,” I reply. “Through him, I learned Francisco’s second wife is pregnant.”
“What are your plans going forward?” Harlan asks. “How soon can I expect a finished article?”
I hold my breath, wishing for an easy way to answer that question. The fact is that I don’t know. I don’t want to tell myboss about my ulterior motive. He knows Danny died, and he understands I suspect it was a mafia hit. But he doesn’t know that I’ve narrowed in on the Corellos as the culprits, or that I’m simultaneously trying to collect information for an official investigation. Those two things would impede my job as a journalist and might influence any decisions I make in the field. It’s a big red flag when someone is too close to the story.
“I need a little more time,” I admit.
“How much more time?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I respond.
He doesn’t look pleased. I feel my window of opportunity shrinking. If I lose this assignment, then I’m on my own. I won’t have access to all the resources at the paper, which will make finding my brother’s killer that much more difficult.
“What if I did a story about mafia children?” I suggest. “I could focus on the new baby and how he or she affects life inside the family.”
Mr. Harlan shakes his head. “That would take way too long. You’re talking about a graduate level thesis project, not a newspaper article.”
I open my mouth to object. I think it’s a pretty interesting topic, one that readers of the paper would be sure to enjoy. But Mr. Harlan is right about one thing; it would take a lot of time to follow the new baby through childhood. I might get some amazing data that would revolutionize our criminal justice system, but I wouldn’t be able to deliver it soon.
“You’re doing a great job,” Mr. Harlan says, surprising me out of my funk. “Just keep working with the family member you’retalking to. See if you can find out anything more about the customers at the restaurant. And try to have something to show me next week.”
“Yes, sir,” I respond, standing up.
He’s given me some more room to pursue my cause, but the deadline of a week from now is very close. I decide I need to spend some time thinking about how I can turn what I already know into a well-rounded story. I can’t deliver the smoking gun yet, but there may be enough information to write a decent article.
I return to my desk and the nearly blank Word document that’s waiting for me. There are just three short sentences about Frankie’s panic attack. I delete them all and go back to my notes to start over.
I wonder what Frankie will say when he sees my byline in the paper. He’ll know I betrayed him then, and all my secrets will be out in the open. I wonder if he can ever forgive me for not being honest. I want to take the entire family down, but my heart aches knowing that I’ll hurt Frankie in the process.
It can’t be helped. This is my job. I need to focus on Danny and do what is best for his memory. Nothing else matters, including my relationship with Frankie. In another lifetime, maybe we could have been happy together, but not in this one. Not in the same world where Frankie’s father is directly responsible for my brother’s death. I square my shoulders and type.
CHAPTER 17
FRANKIE
If I thought what Uncle Gio did every day was exhausting, I had no idea. Following Dante, one of my father’s soldiers, is even more grueling. We go into basements to meet with gangs of thugs. I even see a beatdown, which makes my stomach turn.
I have to stand there while Dante pounds his fist in some poor gambler’s face, proving to him that being late on his payments isn’t an option. When the guy is on the ground, Dante gets up. He wipes his hand off on his own shirt, smearing blood across the fabric.
“I’ll expect payment tomorrow,” he growls, spitting on the fallen man.
I try to pretend that everything is normal, that I witness this kind of thing every day, but inside, I’m panicking. I try not to meet anyone’s eyes. But I know I need to appear to be a leader. My best bet is to look like I’m above it all. If they mistake my nausea for disinterest, then they’ll be less likely to question my authority.
I don’t want to think about what might happen when my father retires and I’m left to handle all of this. I certainly won’t stick around to watch people being beaten up.
Our next stop is a candy store where Dante creates a mess. He doesn’t give me any kind of warning before smashing one of the display racks to the ground.
“Do you think I’m kidding?” he shouts to the pudgy man behind the counter.
“No, sir,” the man shrieks, looking at me to help him.
I contain my reaction, wondering at what point I’ll be required to step in to save innocent people from my employee. That seems to do the trick. The candy shop owner decides that since I’m not going to help him, and since Dante is raging, his best course of action is to comply. He empties the cash register and hands it all to Dante.
Dante counts it, slamming a twenty back on the counter. “Keep the change,” he snaps, reaching into a candy dish to help himself to a chocolate. “Do you want one?” He asks me.
