“You make nice things. I appreciate the gifts. I liked the crucifix, but Benita took it. Did you find Frankie?”
“I didn’t find him. I trust you Papà, and I need your help.”
“You did good for yourself, Lulu.”
“Grazie.”
“Di che cosa hai bisogno?” What do you need?
“The main supplier of bomb making materials in the area.”
Papà’s eyes widened. “You gotta let that go, figliolo.”
“It’s not for me.”
Pausing to sip his wine, Papà’s bony hand trembled. “That’s a dirty business.”
“It’s important.”
Carlo smiled, his wrinkled face creasing like an accordion. “You’re a good boy. I’ll help you.”
“Grazie, Papà.” Luciano paused. “Willie Boy ran the business into the ground.”
“È una vergogna.”
“Heisa disgrace.” Luciano pulled out his phone, tapped on the photo of Dante that Stuart had taken at Willie Boy’s. “Do you recognize him?”
“No. Who is he?”
“A nobody who wants a mil in boodle.”
“Never trust an outsider.Never.”
“I’ll send you another crucifix,” Luciano said.
Carlo smiled. “Igor Stachko. He’s in Springfield, Virginia.”
“What’s his front?”
“He runs a chemical supply company.” Carlo pulled out his phone, then his glasses.
Though Carlo was painfully slow, Luciano stayed silent.
“My eyes don’t work like they used to.” Carlo handed him his phone. “You find him.”
As Luciano scrolled through his address book, he said, “When was the last time you got your eyes checked?”
“I don’t trust doctors.”
Luciano found Igor’s contact info and sent it to himself, then showed Carlo what he’d done. Another sign of respect.
He set Carlo’s phone on the table. “Grazie, Papà.”
“You should take over your family’s business.”
“Not me.”
“What’s Theodore doing?”
