We reach the heavy oak door of his office. The war room. The door is still wide open from when the perimeter alarms tripped.
Matteo guides me inside. The banks of monitors glow with harsh white and blue light, illuminating the dark corners of the room. Feeds from the alley, the restaurant downstairs, the street corners, and the subterranean parking garage flash across the screens. A digital fortress.
"Sit," he points to the massive leather chair behind the desk.
I slide into the oversized seat. The leather is still warm from the hours he spent sitting here, agonizing over the stolen logs. The frayed manila police file detailing his father's murder remains exactly where I left it. The horrific crime scene photos are hidden beneath the cover, but the weight of that tragic night hangs heavily in the air.
Matteo doesn't look at the file. He looks at the monitors.
"Dominic is reviewing the logs right now," Matteo says, leaning against the edge of the desk. He crosses his arms over his broad chest. "The shipping manifests your father tried to pawn off. They detail six massive cargo ships arriving at the Bellanti-controlled docks over the next ten days. Crate after crate of assault rifles, explosives, and untraceable ammunition."
"They were gearing up for a war before you even bought my debt," I observe, studying the tactical maps pinned to the corkboard beside the monitors.
"Yes." Matteo's voice is cold, sharp. The Underboss taking over. "Arthur Reeves just stumbled onto the paper trail. The idiot thought he could use it to blackmail his way out of a million-dollar hole. He had no idea what he was holding. He was holding the ignition key to the entire city."
"And now you have the key."
"Now Dominic has the key." Matteo reaches out, tapping a specific screen showing the eastern edge of the city. "Turi is mobilizing the eastern crews. He's securing the old territories. Turi has been our father's shadow for twenty years, holding the lines. He's advising Dominic on the retaliation strategy. The Bellantis just hit our stronghold. They tried to blow the restaurant. We do not let that go unpunished."
The name Turi brings a vague memory to the surface. The older, silver-haired man from the restaurant downstairs. The trusted elder. The man who raised Matteo and the Costa boys after the brutal assassinations two decades ago. A family forged in blood and grief.
"What happens next?" I ask.
"We strike back." Matteo's dark eyes snap to mine. The predator is fully awake now. "We locate the munitions. We destroy them. We dismantle the Bellanti infrastructure piece by piece. We burn their warehouses, sink their ships, and execute their capos until there is nothing left but ash."
The brutal honesty is jarring, but necessary. He is not sugar-coating his reality. He is handing me the absolute truth of his world. I am sitting in the chair of a mafia enforcer, discussing the systematic execution of a rival syndicate.
A normal woman would be screaming for the police.
I just look at the maps. I look at the man standing in front of me. The man who stood between me and a bullet. The man who bakes bread in the middle of the night to silence the memory of his murdered father.
"Okay," I say simply.
Matteo tilts his head. "Okay?"
"Yes. Okay." I point to a red circle on one of the maps. "If they are importing weapons through the south side, they need a distribution network. My father used to complain about the traffic near the old textile mills on the river. He said the trucks were always blocking the access roads during his late-night gambling runs."
Matteo freezes. He stares at me. The absolute stillness returns, but this time, it isn't shock. It is pure, predatory focus.
"The old textile mills," he repeats slowly.
"Arthur lost a lot of money in those underground games. He always took the river route to avoid the main tollways. He mentioned heavy freight trucks moving at three in the morning. He thought it was weird for abandoned mills."
Matteo turns to the keyboard. His large fingers fly across the keys with surprising agility. A new map populates on the center screen. The winding curve of the Chicago River. A cluster of derelict industrial buildings marked in gray.
"The Bellantis own a shell company registered to that exact block," Matteo murmurs, his eyes scanning the data rapidly. "We assumed it was a money-laundering front. A dummy corporation for their gambling profits."
"It's a staging area," I offer. "You don't move military crates directly to a heavily guarded warehouse. You drop them at a secondary location. A transition point."
Matteo turns around. He places his hands on the armrests of my chair, trapping me between his massive arms. He leans down until his face is inches from mine. The gold chain dangles in the narrow space between our chests.
"You are brilliant," he whispers fiercely.
"I have a master's degree in education. I know how to connect dots."
"You handed me the location of their entire distribution hub."
"Consider it a down payment on my room and board."
