“Out.”
They don’t ask questions. The door closes behind them.
Romano is in the chair. Wrists bound. Ankles bound. Blood on his face from where someone got eager during the capture. I’ll deal with that later. He’s mine.
He looks up when I enter. Fear first. Then calculation. Then the search for leverage.
Good.
I pull up a chair. Sit across from him. Near enough to see the sweat on his upper lip.
Neither of us speaks. The silence stretches. Ten seconds. Twenty. A minute.
Romano breaks first. They always do.
“Lorenzo. Listen to me.”
“No.” He stops. “You listen.”
I lean forward. “You poisoned my brother. At our table. During Sunday dinner.”
“I can explain.”
“I don’t want an explanation.”
He swallows. His hands twist against the bindings. The wedding ring catches the light. He’s been turning it for years when he lies.
“What do you want?” His voice is steady. Most men would be begging by now.
“Names. Everyone you’ve been talking to.”
A calculation shifts behind his eyes. There it is. His last card.
“And if I give you names?”
I let him fill the silence.
“A quick death,” he says. “That’s all I ask. I give you everything, you make it fast.”
I look at him. This man who sat at our table for thirty-two years. Who watched my father die. Who just tried to kill my brother.
“We’ll see.”
He talks. Not at first. First he tries a speech.
“Thirty-two years.” His voice shakes. Not with fear anymore. With rage. “I gave this family thirty-two years. Blood and silence. And what did I get?”
I wait.
“Passed over. Again and again. For a boy who wasn’t born when I was making my bones.” He laughs. Bitter. “I’ve earned my place a hundred times over. But there was never room at the table. Not for someone without the Santoro name.”
“Are you finished?”
He stops.
“The names, Romano. I won’t ask again.”
His face hardens. “The boy wasn’t ready to lead. Everyone knew it. Your father told me once, near the end. Said he worried Dante was too soft. Too much of his mother in him.”
