Chapter 7 - THE MEETING VARGA WANTED
I said no.
Dominic said no.
Varga insisted.
For once, Dominic and I were beautifully aligned.
Then Varga sent proof he had something I needed.
A photograph.
My father.
Alive.
Taken three weeks before his death.
Standing outside a motel with Varga.
On the back:
ASK WHAT THOMAS SOLD ME.
I stared.
“Dad was working with him too?”
Dominic said nothing.
Smart.
I agreed to the meeting.
Not alone.
Not unrepresented.
My attorney came.
Dominic’s counsel came.
No secret warehouse.
No abandoned dock.
Private conference room inside a law firm.
Varga arrived with two lawyers.
Turns out criminals enjoy hourly billing too.
He was older than I expected.
Early sixties.
Gray hair.
Expensive suit.
He looked at me as though assessing a debt again.
I hated him immediately.
“Ms. Bennett.”
“Mr. Varga.”
He smiled.
“Your father had your temper.”
“My father owed you twelve thousand dollars.”
His smile disappeared.
“So Moretti talked.”
“The records did.”
Better.
Then I placed the fake forty-thousand-dollar ledger entry on the table.
“You sent men after me over a debt you knew was false.”
Varga leaned back.
“I knew Moretti increased it.”
“And allowed it.”
“Yes.”
No apology.
At least no lie.
“Why?”
“Your father stole from me.”
“What?”
“Information.”
He looked at Dominic.
“And sold it to Rossi.”
Dominic answered:
“He gave me evidence because your organization threatened him.”
Varga shrugged.
Perspective.
Then he pushed a folder toward me.
My father had sold Varga something else.
Not Rossi secrets.
Moretti’s private asset list.
Thomas had discovered Moretti was stealing from Varga too.
He offered the information in exchange for clearing the real gambling debt.
Varga agreed.
“So why wasn’t it cleared?”
“Because your father never delivered the complete list.”
Of course.
Thomas played everyone.
Dominic.
Varga.
Moretti.
Trying to survive.
Varga continued:
“He kept one page.”
“What page?”
“The one identifying Moretti’s silent partner.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“That’s what I wanted to know.”
Moretti had not built his network alone.
Someone financed acquisitions.
Protected licenses.
Moved contracts.
A legitimate partner.
Then Varga said:
“Thomas told me the name would destroy Rossi.”
I looked at Dominic.
His face became unreadable.
“Why?”
Varga smiled faintly.
“Because the partner is family.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“Say it.”
“I don’t know the name.”
“Convenient.”
“I know only what Thomas told me.”
Then Varga repeated my father’s words.
The man funding Moretti eats Sunday dinner at Rossi’s table.
I looked at Dominic.
“Who?”
Too many.
Cousins.
Uncles.
Captains.
Old family friends.
Then I remembered three months at Laura.
Every Sunday, Dominic ate in the private dining room.
Same six people.
Paulie.
His cousin Matteo Rossi.
Anthony Moretti before disappearing.
Father Callahan from the neighborhood church.
Dominic’s aunt Teresa.
And one man I barely noticed.
Victor Rossi.
Dominic’s younger brother.
I had assumed Victor lived in Miami because he appeared rarely.
Dominic went pale.
Not possible.
That was what his face said.
Then Varga slid across a company-registration page.
Moretti’s largest property holding had an original seed investor.
Initials:
V.R.
Dominic whispered:
May you like
“Victor.”
His own brother may have been financing the man stealing from both mafia families.
