Chapter 9 - THE CHOICE MY FATHER NEVER MADE
The federal agent’s name was Rebecca Shaw.
Isabella had met her twice.
Of course she had.
My wife had built an entire exit strategy around the possibility that I would fail her.
That fact hurt more than every accusation in the ledger.
Agent Shaw arrived with two investigators.
No dramatic speech.
No moral lecture.
She simply opened the book and said:
“If this is authentic, people are going to prison.”
“Including me?”
She looked at me.
“Is there evidence against you?”
“Yes.”
That answer surprised Marco.
I continued.
“Financial crimes. Payments. Things I authorized.”
Agent Shaw nodded.
“Then you should get counsel.”
“I already have one.”
“What are you asking for?”
“Isabella and Mia alive.”
“We don’t negotiate criminal immunity for kidnappers based on your preferences.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
She studied me.
“What are you asking?”
“For you to do your job.”
That sentence would have been impossible for me a year earlier.
Maybe even yesterday.
We planned the ferry terminal operation together.
I hated every second.
There were positions where agents would be hidden.
Emergency medical teams.
Audio surveillance.
No private Rossi shooters.
No execution order.
No revenge.
Marco asked:
“If Paolo shoots?”
“Protect Isabella and Mia.”
“And Paolo?”
“Alive if possible.”
He stared at me.
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
Because Isabella had been right.
Every man around my family used violence as punctuation.
I was tired of pretending that made us strong.
At 5:40 a.m., I entered the terminal alone.
The building smelled like salt, rust, and old diesel.
Paolo stood near the broken ticket counters.
Isabella sat twenty feet behind him.
Mia beside her.
Their wrists were bound in front, but both looked alert.
Isabella saw me.
Her face changed.
Not relief exactly.
Something more complicated.
“You came.”
I almost laughed.
“Late, apparently.”
Even then, her mouth twitched.
Paolo held out one hand.
“The ledger.”
I carried a black leather book.
A copy.
The real ledger was already evidence.
He did not know.
“First them.”
“No.”
“Paolo.”
“You think this is a negotiation?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Still Luca Rossi.”
“No.”
I looked at Isabella.
“I’m trying not to be.”
Her eyes filled.
Paolo frowned.
He hated that he was no longer the center of the room.
He pulled a pistol.
Isabella went still.
“Book.”
I placed it on the floor.
Kicked it toward him.
Paolo picked it up.
Opened the first page.
Then his expression changed.
He knew immediately.
“This is a copy.”
“Yes.”
“Where is the original?”
“With federal investigators.”
His face went white.
“You idiot.”
“No.”
He raised the gun.
“You just buried everyone.”
“Maybe.”
“My father.”
“Your father murdered my mother.”
Paolo’s face hardened.
“You don’t know what happened.”
“I know enough.”
“You were a child.”
“So were you.”
That hit him.
His hand shook.
“I didn’t kill Lucia.”
“Then tell the truth.”
He laughed bitterly.
“My father took me because he wanted me to learn what loyalty meant.”
Behind him, Isabella stared.
Paolo continued.
“Lucia was alive when we arrived.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened?”
“She begged Salvatore to let her go.”
His voice cracked.
“She said she only wanted her children.”
Children.
Me.
Mia.
“My father refused.”
“And you?”
“I stood there.”
He looked almost like a boy again.
“I stood there.”
Then Isabella whispered:
“You’ve been punishing everyone else for that moment ever since.”
Paolo turned toward her.
That was enough.
Agents moved.
He swung the gun.
A shot exploded.
May you like
Isabella dropped.
And my world stopped.
