Patterns are everything in our world.
Leone taps his phone once and sets it on the table in front of me. A notification appears on my screen. AirDrop.
I accept the file without comment.
Leone has done his work well, as usual.
The information confirms what I have suspected for several months now.
The Bratva. Not just one crew, but a larger structure behind them. Three branches operating under the same extended family.
Their operations have begun appearing across the boroughs in small ways. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to be noticed by the right eyes, and ignored by the wrong ones.
Matteo and Giovanni have both reported problems recently. Nothing severe. Nothing they couldn’t handle themselves. But taken together, the incidents begin to form a pattern.
One that reminds me of another time. Another war.
The others have not seen it yet, but they will.
But tonight I intend to help them see sooner rather than later.
Leone leans closer.
“You’re going to tell them?”
“Yes.”
“You think they’ll listen?” He whispers.
“They will.”
Leone glances around the table thoughtfully.
“Even the younger ones?”
“They respect experience,” I say. “And they respect the consequences of ignoring it.”
He nods slowly.
That is the advantage of age. Not authority. Memory.
The head waitress crosses the room again.
She pauses briefly near the welcome desk, checking something on her phone before slipping it back into herapron pocket. Her expression tightens slightly. Something has disturbed her calm. I notice because I have spent enough time watching to recognize the smallest change.
Leone follows my gaze again.
“You know,” he says, “for someone who claims to be observing the room, you spend an impressive amount of time observing exactly one person in it.”
I do not answer.
The others arrive. Romano settles next to Lucchese, their seconds at either side of them. Alberto and Valerio. Bruno is here too, Matteo’s right arm. Giovanni is alone by design. His man is away on a mission. Undercover, long-term. It’s my job to know that too.
A young waitress comes to get our orders. Erin, I think she’s called. The one Luca always stares at for a second too long. Then again, I’m in no position to chastise him. Not that I would. Our lives afford us every luxury, but rarely any pleasure.
We eat. Dinner is, as always, excellent. The chef here is supposed to be Gerard Bernardi, one of the owners, but everybody knows the real work is done by his sous chef, Savannah Cross. Just like everybody knows it’s not Donald Bernardi who is responsible for the impeccable wine selection and the choice of flower arrangements, but the young bartender behind the lounge counter and the florist chatting with her there.
And the one who keeps the machine well-oiled, the one who keeps this place going?—
