Lance pinched the metal closure and pulled open the flap. He saw no more than the top inch of writing on the first page next to the photo before his fingers started shaking so badly he could hardly close it up again. He set the envelope on the floor, repacked the box, and replaced it on the shelf.
Rico looked like a pup with a bladder issue by the time Lance came out, envelope in hand. He jumped right up and headed for the door.
Gina looked up from her tea. “Found it?” She was dying to ask, he knew, but was more eager to end the awkwardness.
Lance kissed her cheek. “Thanks. I’ll get it back to you.”
She patted his cheek in return. “You okay?” Concern washed her eyes.
“Sure.”
She held him a moment too long in her gaze. “Okay. Stop in anytime. Jake’ll be sad he missed you.”
But happy to avoid Darryl, no doubt. Had Gina set it up that way? No matter. Their business.
They went out to the sidewalk, and before he realized it was coming, Rico snatched the envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t open it.”
“Why not?”
Lance held out his hand. “It’s my problem.”
Rico frowned. “There’s no ‘my’ with us.”
“There is this time.” Lance reached for the envelope, but Rico stepped back.
Even with his arm strapped to his chest, he looked fierce. “You’re not doing this alone, ’mano.”
“Doing what?”
“You think I’m blind? I haven’t seen you agonizing, starving yourself?” “I’m not starving.”
Rico clutched the envelope.
Lance sighed. “It’s not your fight, Rico. It might not end well.” Messing with a crime family usually didn’t.
“However it ends, it ends.”
His chest clenched. “Rico …”
But he opened the envelope and took the papers out.
————
Rese was alone in the workshop when the pain blindsided her. She’d expected it earlier, but it hadn’t hit. In the nine days since Lance had called she’d worked nonstop, advancing the plan she and Brad had agreed on, voiding the plan she and Lance had made.
All reservations were cancelled, money returned, Web site discontinued. She didn’t know enough to deal with the wine yet, but the silver certificates had netted nearly five times their face value, more than enough to set up the rival company—Plocken and Barrett, Renovation Specialists. She might have sold her blue sky with Barrett Renovations, but she didn’t doubt they’d win it back. Brad hadn’t pushed it, but they’d listed her name second to limit the obvious effect on their competition. Having Barrett there would open doors, but she didn’t want to be sued.
After hammering out the agreement, they had talked about Vernon Barrett, her dad and hero. Brad’s too, in a lot of ways. They were both products of his uncompromising standards, his drive for excellence, his frugal but fair praise. They’d shaken hands at the end of the night, and she’d gone home, convinced she could take on the world.
But in the quiet of the workshop, doing what she loved, the pain had come. Why hadn’t she seen it coming? She could have prepared, could have looked it squarely in the eye. But no. Waves of hurt rolled over her.
Hurt and anger and confusion. What had she missed? Was it all about conquest? Maybe it was enough that she’d fallen in love. That had to have been one of his harder battles, if Sybil was any indication.
She’d been all over him from day one, and was obviously not the first to find him irresistible.
She couldn’t pretend ignorance. How many people had given it to her straight? Even Lance. Maybe he’d tried to be different, but when it came down to it, he’d ducked out before he could fail. The thought infuriated and devastated her. And the most unfair part was that in and around and through her pain was the awful feeling that something wasn’t right.
Ridiculous, but … the feeling persisted, a concern so terrible she could not be imagining it, as though Walter had Lance trapped in the dark, breathing poisoned air.
“Rese?”
The chisel wavered in her hand. She looked up to Michelle, who stood framed in the doorway.
“Star said you were in here.” Michelle held up a leash hopefully. “Can I borrow Baxter?”
Rese looked down at the dog lying at her feet, his tail wagging at the prospect, though he stayed put. Lance hadn’t said a word about who got custody, but possession was nine-tenths of the law. “Sure. He’d like to get out.”
She’d been finishing up a scrollwork design for a cabinet and hadn’t noticed the hours passing. Baxter must be tired of lying at her feet, though he hadn’t protested. Michelle would take him along as she took toilet paper and toothpaste, or diapers or soup to the needy just outside the esteemed Sonoma city limits. He seemed to like their trips, and everyone liked him—what wasn’t to like?
Rese patted his head. “Go on.”
He scrambled up. She was actually surprised he hadn’t jumped up to greet Michelle immediately, but he seemed to sense the sorrow that had descended on her like a pall. Maybe he felt his master’s desertion as acutely as she did, but lacked the ability to transform it to anger or action.
“Are you all right?” Michelle’s brow puckered.
Rese sidestepped. “Michelle, how do you get along with people so easily?” Maybe it was something she’d done and hadn’t even realized that drove him away.
Michelle straightened from attaching the leash and shrugged. “I see Jesus in them.” Her face softened. “ ‘Whatever you do for the least of these, you do it for me.’ Simple as that.”
Simple. “You look for the best in people?”
Michelle laughed. “Now, that’s harder. With the ornery ones especially. No, I just see whatever they want to show me and love them right there.”
“And if they don’t love you back?” Her voice had almost broken, but she caught it without showing the pain behind the words.
Michelle shrugged. “Some people are so holed up inside they can’t reach out.”
Rese studied her face, but if she’d meant that personally, it didn’t show.
“Others are searching so hard they can’t see what’s in front of them. But we’re all just doing the best we can.”
Rese nodded. “Right.” She’d spent all her energy doing the best, being the best. But it obviously wasn’t enough, and now she wondered if it ever had been.
“Lord love you, Rese. I’ll be back with Baxter.” Michelle waved the leash.
And Lord love you, too, Michelle, because someday when you’re not looking someone might just let you down so far you won’t be able to love them no matter how hard you try.
————
The file held a meticulous account of Paolo Borsellino, his sons, Leon and Matteo, several cousins, a nephew, and two cohorts. The crimes and dirty dealings were detailed and dated, though probably past the statute of limitations since the information was over twentytwo years old and none concerned murder.
The one murder he knew of, Nonno had not recorded. Hard to do when you’re the victim.
Lance sat with Rico on the fire escape, shielding the pages from the slight breeze with his body. The sound of a Harley several blocks away brought Rico’s head up, but not even that broke Lance’s focus. With the information in the envelope, Nonno could have put them all away, but he’d kept the truce. Why? His family connection? Some sense of honor, or guilt for betraying Don Agosto to his death? Possible, given the guilt he’d carried over Vittorio’s. He and Nonno were alike in that, bearing the weight of other people’s choices.
If Nonno had turned this information over and revealed the threat against his family, surely something could have been done. Or had he believed the risk too great? How could he protect them all, and for how long? Knowing his enemy too thoroughly, Nonno had assessed the risk and sacrificed himself to protect the ones he loved.
But he had left this so that justice could be served if the crime was committed. He must have expected someone to bring it to the authorities. Nonna’s letter would have spurred a search, and maybe the folder had been easily accessible until someone boxed it up with Nonno’s other things.
Tony—had Tony read the file? He was NYPD. Without the letter, he would not have connected it to Nonno’s accident, but even a rookie cop would recognize evidence of crimes. Lance didn’t know how long it had been in the box, but Tony had never shown him. Had Nonno told him the Borsellinos were hands off? Could Tony have known?
Rico’s stomach growled. “Want to get some food?”
Lance shook his head. Nonno might have expected Tony to put it all together. How could he know his grandson would be dead before the letter was found? Twenty-two years ago, they might have investigated, built a case. But what chance was there now of proving anything? He sighed. Hopeless as it seemed, he had to start somewhere. He gathered the papers into the envelope and stood up. “I’m taking this to the cops. You can’t come with me, Rico. I don’t want them knowing you’re involved.”
Rico didn’t argue. Going to the NYPD with anything was not for him. Tony, sure, who hadn’t loved Tony? And Rico knew Juan deserved each trip he took, but beyond that, he had a basic distrust of the system.
“I don’t see them taking you seriously. What can they do with that?” Rico nodded at the envelope.
“Maybe nothing. Probably nothing. But I have to try.” Lance climbed in through the window and left Rico shaking his head.
He could have gone somewhere in the Bronx precinct, but he took the train into the city to Tony’s old station. He approached the officer at the desk and asked for Tony’s former partner, Seabass.
The officer raised his brows at his use of the nickname and directed him to Sebastian Gamet’s office. Lance knuckled the doorframe and walked in.
“Michelli!”
“You made detective.”
“Last year.” The man stood up from behind the desk and gripped his hand. Half a hoagie piled with onions ripened the air between them. “How are ya? Stayin’ out of trouble?”
Right. “I try.”
Gamet’s ginger brows pinched together beneath the comb-over that was truly scary. “Sure miss ribbing Tony about his felonious kid brother.”
“Not felonious. I was never charged.”
Gamet cocked his head. “You doing okay? You look a little … gaunt.”
Where did he begin to answer? “I’m fine. But I want to show you something.” He held out the Borsellino file and the last page of Nonno’s letter as well.
Gamet read it over carefully. “Marco Michelli’s a relative of yours?”
“My grandfather.”
“That’s right. Tony told me that. He was with the force.”
“Later on. FBI to start with. Worked undercover through some tough times.”
Gamet nodded. “All times are tough undercover.”
“He infiltrated the Borsellino Camorra family. Sent the don up the river, where the Mafia took him out.”
“That happens.”
Lance sat on the edge of the desk. “The Borsellinos made it a vendetta against Marco. One of the sons, Carlo, followed him to Sonoma, killed his contact, and tried to kill him. Marco shot Carlo in self-defense.”
Gamet swigged his Diet Coke, listening, but not necessarily buying it.
“The next son, Paolo, made a truce with Marco. They’d leave each other and their families alone. Paolo needed to establish himself, and Marco had seen that they would kill.”
Gamet took a bite and chewed thoughtfully.
“Years later Paolo got fingered and convicted. As it says in the letter, he must have thought Marco was part of it and ordered the hit from his cell in Ryker.”
Gamet frowned. “We got a file on that killing?”
Lance shook his head. “We thought it was a car accident. It looked like an accident.”
Gamet studied him. “But now you think your grandpa was offed in this vendetta.”
Lance nodded. “The letter was written the day Marco died. Read the page. He received a threat in a phone call and went to meet it.”
Gamet pursed his lips as he ran his gaze over Marco’s letter. “That is a possible scenario. It’s also possible his car crashed before he got there, or that he had his meeting, settled things, and crashed on the way home. Believe me, these kinds of ironic things happen.”
Lance hadn’t thought in those terms and didn’t believe it, but gave the detective his due.
Gamet set the papers down, came around the desk, and gripped his shoulder. “If it’s true, you’ve wrongly lost two people who mattered. You know Tony mattered to me. He wasn’t even on shift that morning, just doing a favor for one of the guys.”
It had tormented him to think of the man who should have been in that place at that time. But now he didn’t believe that either. God knew what had to be. “Is there anything you can do with this?”
“I won’t dismiss it right off. But it’s pretty slim.”
“But you’ll look? Search out Marco’s record, anything he might have left in the files or … anything?”
“I’ll look, Lance. No investigation on the accident?”
He sighed. “I don’t think so.”
“And it was twenty …”
“Twenty-two years ago.”
“And no record of a crime. Not even a cold case.”
Lance shook his head.
“That’ll be pulling a rabbit out of a hat. What am I supposed to use for evidence?”
Lance sagged. “I know. It’s just …”
A vendetta
. His head spun, and he pressed his fingers to his eyes.
“Are you okay?”
He swallowed. “Guess I need to eat something.”
“Well, here.” Gamet reached behind him for the half hoagie.
Lance waved him off as his stomach turned over. “Thanks, no.”
Gamet set the sandwich back down. “Lance, we lost some good men, but you have to stop looking in the shadows to cast blame.”
“I didn’t look for this.” It was given to him. He turned toward the door. “Let me know what you come up with.”
Gamet eased back down in his chair and picked up the sandwich. “I will.”
But Lance could tell by his tone there wouldn’t be anything. “Look up the Borsellinos, will you?”
He rocked back in his chair. “And what?”
“Just see if they’re still in business.”
“Police files are not public domain.”
“And tell Sara hi for me.”
Gamet cocked his head with a sigh. “Get outta here.”