Chapter 6: Someone Close
The files Nico pulled arrived at six the next morning.
Dante was in a hotel suite two blocks from the clinic — three rooms, the girls in one, Nico working at the table in another, Dante in the third with his coffee going cold beside him.
He had slept for two hours.
He did not feel it.
He went through the files the way he went through everything: methodically, without rushing, looking for the thing that didn't fit.
It took him forty minutes to find it.
In the week before Elena's supposed d\*ath, there had been a transfer.
Small enough to overlook — forty thousand dollars, routed through a shell company in Delaware that dissolved six months later.
The destination account had been closed.
But the originating account, traced back carefully through two intermediaries, belonged to a holding company that Dante recognized.
It was registered to Marco Vitale.
Marco had been Dante's head of security for thirteen years.
He had been at the graveside in Cambridge.
He had stood in the rain beside Dante and said nothing, the way good men stand beside grieving men and say nothing.
Dante set the page down.
"Nico."
Nico appeared in the doorway.
He looked at Dante's face and then at the page on the table.
"Marco," Dante said.
Nico sat down slowly.
"I didn't know."
"I believe you."
"How long?"
"At least since before the fire.
Possibly longer." Dante picked up his coffee, found it cold, set it back down.
"Where is he now?"
"He's at the warehouse on Summer Street.
He's been running the morning logistics."
"I want him brought here.
Quietly.
Tell him I need a security briefing on the North End situation.
Don't tell him anything else."
Nico stood.
At the door he paused.
"What about Vincent?"
"Vincent comes after Marco.
I need to know exactly what Marco told him and when before I sit across from Vincent." Dante looked up.
"And I need to know if Vincent knows about the girls."
Nico left.
In the next room, Dante heard one of the girls wake up — a small sound, a rustling, then Rosa's voice saying something low and reassuring to her sisters.
He heard the three of them move to the bathroom, heard water running, heard Cora say something that made Mia laugh.
He sat with that sound for a moment.
Then he picked up his phone and called the clinic.
"She had a comfortable night," Dr.
Reyes said.
"The nephrologist is coming at nine.
Dante — her numbers are worse than I said last night.
I didn't want to say it in front of the children."
"How much worse?"
"She needs to be on the transplant list.
Soon."
"Put her on it."
"It's not that simple — "
"Make it that simple.
Whatever you need, whoever you need to call, whatever it costs.
Make it simple."
A pause.
"I'll make some calls."
"Thank you."
He ended the call and sat for another moment.
Then Rosa appeared in the doorway in yesterday's clothes, her auburn hair loose, holding a hotel notepad and a pen.
"I made a list," she said.
"Of what?"
"Things we need.
From the apartment.
Clothes and Mia's bear and Mom's medication and Cora's drawing things." She held out the notepad.
"Can someone get them?"
Dante took the list.
It was written in a careful, slightly-too-large hand, everything spelled correctly, numbered one through nine.
"I'll send someone," he said.
"Don't send the scary one," Rosa said.
"Send the one who held the door for us last night.
He has a nicer face."
"That's also Nico."
Rosa considered this.
"He has two faces," she decided, and went back to her sisters.
Marco arrived at eight-fifteen.
He walked in looking relaxed — a big man, broad-shouldered, with gray at his temples and the easy confidence of someone who had never been caught at anything.
He nodded at Nico.
He looked around the suite with professional habit, checking exits and sightlines.
Then he saw Dante's face.
His own face didn't change.
But his right hand moved — just slightly, just a fraction — toward his side before he stopped it.
"Sit down, Marco," Dante said.
Marco sat.
Dante placed the financial record on the table between them and said nothing.
Marco looked at it for a long time.
"I can explain — " he started.
"Don't," Dante said.
"Don't explain it.
Just tell me what you told him and when."
A silence.
"He came to me first," Marco said.
"Before he went to the girl.
He wanted to know if you were serious about her.
I told him you were."
"And then?"
"And then he told me what he was going to do.
And he told me what would happen to my family if I interfered." Marco's voice was flat.
"I have a daughter, Dante.
She was three years old."
"I know you have a daughter."
"Then you know — "
"I know," Dante said, "that you stood beside me at a graveside and said nothing.
For seven years." He leaned forward.
"Did you know she was alive?"
Marco's jaw worked.
"Not at first.
After the second year — Vincent let it slip.
I think he wanted me to know.
To keep me in place."
"And you said nothing."
"He had my daughter's school schedule on a piece of paper.
He handed it to me across a table and smiled." Marco's voice cracked slightly.
"What would you have done?"
Dante looked at him for a long time.
"I would have come to me," Dante said quietly.
"That's what I would have done."
Marco said nothing.
"You're done," Dante said.
"Leave Boston.
Take your family.
Don't contact anyone in this organization again.
If I see you after today, the conversation will be different."
Marco stood.
His face had gone gray.
At the door he stopped.
"Dante.
Vincent knows about the children.
He's known for two years.
He had someone watching the Dorchester building."
The room was very quiet.
"How long have you known that?" Dante asked.
"Two weeks," Marco said.
"I'm sorry."
He left.
Nico looked at Dante.
Dante looked at the closed door.
May you like
"Call Vincent," Dante said.
"Tell him I'm ready for that dinner."
