"Age brackets," he murmurs.
"Yeah."
"They're running a trafficking pipeline through our waterway."
"Through both our waterways. Both families used as cover. Both families too busy trying to kill each other to see what was moving underneath."
Ferrara looks up. His eyes are different now. Whatever neutrality he walked in with is gone. What's there instead is old and cold and the kind of angry that doesn't shout, the kind that plans.
"What does your boss want?"
"A joint operation. Both families coordinated. We take Vidal, we take the handoff, we follow the trail to Kreiss and we dismantle the pipeline, but as one big happy family, instead of two brothers fighting."
"Family." His nose scrunches ever so slightly. "The Bonaccorsos and the Castillos working together."
"Nobody's asking you to like us. Nobody's asking for peace or partnership or a group hug. We're asking for a temporary alliance against a common enemy who's been trafficking women and children through our territory. After Kreiss is dealt with, you can go back to hating us. We'll go back to hating you, but right now, this is bigger than the war."
Ferrara sits with it. The restaurant noise fills the gap. Dishes, conversation, the bartender running a blender for something nobody at this table ordered. Normal sounds around an abnormal conversation.
"I need to take this to the Don," he says.
"Take it. Take the photographs, the manifests, all of it. Show him everything. If he wants to verify independently, we'll cooperate with whatever due diligence he needs. The evidence is real, Renzo. I wish it wasn't."
Ferrara gathers the papers. Puts them in the folder. Slides it off the table and into his lap. He looks at me for a long moment.
"Your father was a soldier," he says.
I blink. "My father was executed when I was seven."
"I know. I knew your father. He was a good soldier who made bad choices and paid for them. But he was honest, and his sons have his eyes." Ferrara stands. "I'll call your boss within forty-eight hours."
He leaves. His bodyguard follows. The restaurant keeps moving and the back booth is empty except for me and Carmelo and two untouched glasses of water and the hope that a conversation that might have just changed the trajectory of a two-year war.
Carmelo looks at me. "He'll say yes,.”
I pull out my phone and call Leone.
"He took the evidence. He's bringing it to Marco. He'll call within forty-eight hours."
"How did he react to the trafficking?"
"The way any man with half a conscience reacts. He went white and his hands went flat on the table, and he said age brackets in a voice that sounded like he wanted to dig a grave with his bare hands."
Leone is quiet for a second. "Good."
"He knew my father."
Another pause, longer this time. "A lot of people knew your father, Emilio."
"He said my father was honest and that his sons have his eyes."
"Then he's already decided. A man who invokes your father to your face is telling you he's going to honor the request. It's a respect signal." Leone exhales. "Come home. Get some rest. Aurelio asked about you."
"How is he?"
"He's Aurelio. He wants updates on the operation and refuses to eat the soup the nurses bring him and told the doctor to go fuck himself when he suggested hospice care."
"That's a good sign."
