“I wanted to tell you that you did well tonight,” he says.
“I know,” I reply, and I let it be true without apology.
He nods once, like that answer tells him what he needs to know.
“I didn’t come here to interrupt your work,” he says. “And I won’t keep you now.”
I wait. If he has something to say, he will say it. If he doesn’t, this ends here. I don't try to soften if for him either way.
“There’s something I owe you,” he says. “An answer.”
I don't react or move. I don't know what he's talking about, but I'm open to what he has to say.
“When you asked me about the fentanyl,” he says, “I didn’t deny it. Not because it was true, but because I didn’t know.”
My pulse ramps up again. Suddenly, my mouth is dry, and my chest is tight.
“I don’t move drugs,” he continues. “I never have. My father didn’t either.” His voice stays even, factual.
I still say nothing. At this point, I don't trust my voice to come out clearly.
“I don't want to bog you down with details, but there was no fentanyl that came into this city on my watch, and it won't ever.”
The room stills around us. I shift my stance, leaning against the table behind me.
“I’m telling you now so you know,” he finishes. “Not to persuade you, or to undo anything. It was just important to me that you know the truth.”
I take a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The answer settles into place, not like relief, but like something finally aligned.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
He inclines his head. Just once.
“I won’t take more of your time,” he says. “If you everwant to talk, or if you have any questions about that or anything else, you know how to find me.”
It isn’t an invitation or a plea. But it’s a door left unlocked, nothing more.
He steps back, giving me room to move or not move, and turns toward the exit.
I watch him go, the quiet control of his stride, the way he doesn’t look back.
THIRTY
Ridge
The Matranga Ambush of 1890: On May 6, 1890, members of the Matranga faction ambushed associates of the rival Provenzano family on Esplanade Avenue in New Orleans. Lying in wait, the attackers opened fire, seriously injuring three men and escalating tensions within the Italian immigrant community. This violent act was a precursor to the infamous 1891 lynching of Italian immigrants, marking a dark chapter in the city’s history.
I stepout of the restaurant and let the door close behind me.
My hands are still steady. That’s the first thing I register. They don’t shake. They don’t tighten. They hang at my sides like nothing just happened.
The street hits me all at once. Heat. Noise. Motion. It’s too much after the tight control of the room, after watching her move through it like she owns the air. After answering a question I’ve carried for months, and walking away without knowing if it changed anything.
I put distance between myself and the door before Ireach for my phone. I don’t want her to see me turn back. I don’t want her to see anything.
Keller answers quickly.
“What the hell,” I say.
