Chapter 3 - Uncle Marco Is Lying
The next morning Serena didn’t come to work.
Damiano noticed at 8:07.
By 8:12, he had asked Mrs. Caruso why.
“She called in sick.”
“Serena?”
“Yes.”
Damiano frowned.
In eight months, Serena had never missed a shift.
“Did she sound sick?”
Mrs. Caruso hesitated.
“Frightened.”
Damiano took out his phone.
Marco entered the hall.
“We need to talk.”
“About?”
“Newark.”
Damiano’s eyes stayed on his screen.
“Later.”
“It can’t wait.”
Damiano looked up.
Marco was unusually insistent.
That alone was enough.
“Tell me.”
“Our container was flagged. Someone talked.”
“Who?”
“I’m finding out.”
Damiano’s phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Conti.”
Nothing.
Then breathing.
Small breathing.
“Hello?”
A whisper came through.
“Mr. Damiano?”
His body went rigid.
“Lucia?”
“Mommy said not to call.”
“Where are you?”
“In a car.”
Damiano looked at Marco.
Marco was watching him.
“Who are you with?”
“Uncle Marco’s friend.”
Marco’s face changed.
Barely.
But enough.
Damiano turned away.
“What friend?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s your mother?”
Lucia whispered, “She’s here.”
“Put her on.”
“She’s sleeping.”
Something cold moved through Damiano’s chest.
“Lucia, listen carefully. Is your mommy hurt?”
“No. She got medicine because she was scared.”
Damiano’s voice became frighteningly calm.
“Who gave it to her?”
“The man.”
Marco stepped closer.
“Who’s on the phone?”
Damiano raised a finger.
Stay there.
Lucia whispered again.
“Mr. Damiano?”
“I’m here.”
“Uncle Marco is lying.”
Silence.
Damiano slowly turned his head.
Marco’s face emptied.
“What did you say?” Damiano asked.
“I heard him talking to the man. Uncle Marco said you can’t find the picture.”
Damiano stared directly into the eyes of his oldest friend.
“Lucia, can you see outside?”
“Big water.”
“What else?”
“Lots of boxes.”
A warehouse district.
“Can you see letters?”
Lucia shifted.
“Red letters. B… R…”
Damiano’s mind raced.
“Is there a bridge?”
“Yes.”
He knew the area.
Brooklyn waterfront.
Marco moved toward the door.
Damiano said quietly, “Don’t.”
Marco stopped.
Their eyes met.
Twelve years.
Twelve years of dinners, funerals, negotiations and wars.
Twelve years of Marco standing at his right shoulder.
“Give me your phone,” Damiano said.
Marco laughed softly.
“You’re joking.”
“Phone.”
“Damiano—”
“Put it on the table.”
Marco’s hand moved inside his jacket.
Damiano’s security chief appeared in the doorway.
“Hands where I can see them.”
Marco froze.
For the first time in twelve years, the two friends looked at each other as enemies.
Damiano kept Lucia on the line.
“Stay with me, sweetheart.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“Are you coming?”
“Yes.”
“You promise?”
Damiano looked at Marco.
“I promise.”
The call disconnected.
Damiano’s expression changed.
“Trace it.”
His security chief moved immediately.
Marco shook his head.
“You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Then explain it.”
“I was protecting you.”
“By taking Serena and her daughter?”
Marco’s eyes hardened.
“You think this is about a maid?”
Damiano stepped closer.
“It became about her when you put a three-year-old in a car.”
Marco looked away.
That told Damiano everything.
“You knew Isabella Moretti.”
Marco said nothing.
“You recognized her photograph.”
Still nothing.
“What happened twenty years ago?”
Marco finally looked at him.
“Ask your father.”
“My father is dead.”
“Exactly.”
Damiano’s phone buzzed.
A location.
Brooklyn.
Pier 41.
He turned toward the door.
Marco spoke behind him.
“If you go there, you’re walking into a trap.”
Damiano stopped.
“Whose?”
Marco smiled sadly.
“Mine.”
May you like
Damiano looked back.
“Then you should have built a better one.”
