I parked the car in a darkened alley, and Cosimo hopped in. The way he slid in the back was far too casual, like he hadn’t been siphoning hundreds of thousands of dollars from us.
Rocco glanced at me in the rearview, the kind of look that doesn’t ask anything and still says everything. His jaw was tight. I felt the car settle around us, the engine a low animal. For a second I let the ordinary noise of the city fill the space—tires on wet asphalt, a distant siren—because if I didn’t I could hear the tiny, furious calculations in my own head.
“Club been busy, Cosimo?” I asked, voice smooth.
Cosimo leaned back like we were just catching up, one arm slung over the seat, a grin carved too wide across his face. “Always, man. You know how it is. Cash flowing, girls dancing, drinks never stop. Place runs itself.”
“Don’t I,” I said, feigning a chuckle.
I eased the car out of the alley, headlights cutting across slick asphalt as the city blurred by. Nobody spoke. Rocco watched the streets roll past with that same stone-faced calm, while Cosimo lounged in the back like he hadn’t a care in the world.
The further we drove, the thinner the city grew. Neon and storefronts gave way to silent warehouses and cracked pavement, the kind of district that forgot how to breathe after dark. My hands stayed steady on the wheel, but inside my head the math kept running—how much he’d skimmed, how far trust had slipped, how this night would end. By the time the warehouse came into view, Cosimo’s grin looked painted on, and I could already feel the air sharpening for what came next.
I killed the headlights half a block early, letting the car roll the last stretch in shadow. The warehouse crouched at the end of the street, all rusted metal and boarded windows, the kind ofplace nobody had cared about in years. I pulled up to the dented loading bay doors, then cut the engine.
“You got any plans for this guy we’re interrogating?” Cosimo asked, none the wiser, his tone almost playful as he finally slid out of the car.
If only he knew. “Oh, just a few,” I responded, slamming my car door.
The three of us entered the warehouse. The air was heavy with dust and old oil, the concrete floor echoing under our steps. Ettore, Emilio, and Vincenzo stood waiting near the center, their shadows long in the harsh light of a single hanging bulb.
Cosimo hesitated just a fraction, caught off guard by the audience, then forced his grin back into place. “Didn’t know it was a party,” he said, voice thin.
“Only for you,” I replied, letting the words settle over him as the door clanged shut behind us.
“What do you mean—” he started, but before he could finish Rocco had grabbed him and dragged him to a chair in the center of the room.
Cosimo yelped, stumbling over his own feet as Rocco’s grip tightened around his arm. The chair scraped against the concrete, ringing out like a warning. He twisted, tried to break free, but Rocco’s strength didn’t give him an inch.
Vincenzo came up behind him and quickly wrapped duct tape around Cosimo’s wrists, pulling them tight until the struggle only made them dig in deeper. Cosimo hissed through gritted teeth, twisting and jerking, but the tape held fast, binding him firmly to the chair.
“What do you think you’re doing,cousin?” he hissed at me.
“What do I think I’m doing?” I let out an incredulous laugh. “Tell me, what do you think you’re doing by stealing money from us?”
Cosimo’s eyes narrowed, panic and anger sparking in equal measure. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve just been running the club.”
I couldn’t contain my laughter. Emilio let out an audible snort, the sound bouncing off the warehouse walls, while Rocco just rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching in irritation at our theatrics. Cosimo’s face burned red, his bravado crumbling with each passing second.
“You think this is funny?” he spat through clenched teeth, “Wait until I tell your father—”
“You won’t be telling him anything,” I said, holding up the ledger Tessa had found, and Cosimo’s face paled. “You had men break into the house looking for this, didn’t you?”
He swallowed so hard I could see it move at the base of his throat. “I—no, cousin, I swear—nobody—”
“You’ve always been full of shit, Cosimo,” Rocco said, looking at him with a look of disdain.
I stepped closer too, letting the ledger rest in my hands like a loaded weight. “You thought you could take from us, hide it, and get away with it,” I said, voice low, deliberate. “Just like you did our grandpa.”
“And when Grandma put a stop to it and left you with nothing,” Rocco said, finishing my sentence the way only my twin could. “You didn’t take it well. So you went looking for a new pocket to pick—ours.”
I motioned for Emilio to bring the bucket of water over. It shifted with a soft, ominous slosh that made Cosimo’s eyes flick to it and never leave. I didn’t have to say anything more; the suggestion sat in the room like a second light, simple and undeniable.
I grabbed a rag and held it between my fingers, letting the dampness show in the way it sagged. I didn’t touch him with it at first, just the sight of it was enough. Cosimo’s pupils jumped;his hands trembled against the tape as if the rag were already a promise.
Emilio came closer with the bucket, slow and deliberate. Vincenzo stayed where he could see every flinch. I dipped the rag, squeezed it once so a slow drip formed on the edge, and let a single bead fall, running in a thin dark line toward Cosimo’s knee. He made a noise that wasn’t a sob yet, more like the sound a man makes when he realizes the floor’s gone out from under him.
“Tell me where the money went,” I said, soft, patient. “And I might consider letting you live. You are my cousin, after all.”
