Chapter 7: Dinner With the Devil
Vincent Caruso chose the same restaurant in the North End.
Of course he did.
He was a man who liked to control the geography of a conversation — the table, the lighting, the exits, the distance between himself and the nearest door.
Dante had always known this about him.
He had once considered it a strength they shared.
He arrived ten minutes late, which was unusual for him, and Vincent's eyes moved to the door the moment he walked in.
A flicker of something — relief, calculation, or both — and then the smile.
"Dante.
I was starting to worry."
"You were starting to plan," Dante said, and sat down.
Vincent's smile stayed in place.
He was sixty-one years old, silver-haired, impeccably dressed, with the kind of face that had learned very early how to look trustworthy.
He poured wine without being asked.
"You canceled on me last night," Vincent said.
"Something came up."
"Anything serious?"
"Very." Dante picked up the wine glass and set it back down without drinking.
"I want to ask you something, Vincent.
And I want you to think carefully before you answer."
"Of course."
"Seven years ago.
Elena Ward."
Not a muscle in Vincent's face moved.
"Terrible thing," Vincent said.
"I remember how hard that was for you."
"I'm sure you do." Dante kept his voice conversational.
"Did you know she was alive?"
A pause — very brief, very controlled.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the fact that you arranged a fire on Interstate 93 to make me believe the woman I loved was d\*ad.
I'm talking about the fact that you threatened her into disappearing.
I'm talking about the fact that she has been living in Dorchester for seven years, sick, with no money, raising three children alone." Dante leaned back slightly.
"My children."
Vincent set his wine glass down.
"That's a serious accusation," he said.
"It's not an accusation.
It's a summary."
"You have no proof of — "
"I have Marco." Dante watched Vincent's face.
"He told me everything.
The forty thousand.
The shell company.
The photograph of Elena's mother.
The conversation you had with him two weeks ago about the children."
Something shifted behind Vincent's eyes.
The smile didn't disappear — it was too practiced for that — but it changed quality.
Became something older and colder.
"Marco is a frightened man who will say whatever keeps him safe," Vincent said.
"He will.
Which is why I also have the financial records.
And the transfer documentation.
And a statement from Elena herself, given this morning to my attorney, describing your visit to her apartment seven years ago in considerable detail — including specific things you said that only you could have said."
Vincent was quiet.
"You want to know why I did it," he said finally.
"I know why you did it.
You told her yourself.
You didn't want me distracted." Dante's voice stayed even.
"What I want to know is what you intended to do about the children.
Now that you know they exist."
A long silence.
Then Vincent leaned forward, and the smile was entirely gone now, and what was underneath it was something Dante had always suspected was there.
"Those children are a liability," Vincent said quietly.
"For you and for me.
You know what happens when men in our position have vulnerabilities.
You've used that knowledge yourself."
"I have."
"Then you understand that I was protecting the organization.
I was protecting you, even if you can't see it that way."
"I see it very clearly," Dante said.
"You were protecting your investment."
"Call it what you like."
"I'll call it what it is." Dante reached into his jacket and placed a folded document on the table.
"That is a full accounting of every financial position you hold that runs through any entity connected to me.
As of this morning, all of it has been frozen.
My attorneys filed the paperwork at seven a.m."
Vincent looked at the document.
He did not touch it.
"You're making a mistake," he said.
"I've made mistakes before.
This isn't one of them."
"I have friends, Dante.
People you haven't considered."
"Name them." Dante met his eyes.
"I've been in this city for twenty-three years.
Name one person you can call tonight who will move against me on your behalf."
Silence.
"This isn't over," Vincent said.
"It is," Dante said.
"You're going to finish your wine.
Then you're going to leave this restaurant.
And tomorrow morning, my attorney is going to contact yours with a very specific set of terms.
You will sign them.
If you don't, the financial records — all of them, including the ones that implicate you in the I-93 incident — go to the federal prosecutor's office.
The same prosecutor who has been building a case against this organization for four years and who would be very grateful for documented evidence pointing away from me and toward you."
Vincent's hand was on the table.
It didn't move.
"You'd burn everything," he said.
"I'd burn your part of it," Dante said.
"I've spent six months making sure my part is clean.
I had a reason to.
I just didn't know yet what the reason was."
He stood.
"Finish your wine, Vincent.
It's a good bottle.
You chose it yourself."
He left the restaurant without looking back.
On the sidewalk outside, Nico fell into step beside him.
"How did he take it?" Nico asked.
"He threatened me."
"And?"
"And he didn't move." Dante turned up his collar against the October cold.
"He won't.
He's a man who calculates.
He's calculating right now.
By morning he'll have calculated that signing is the only option that doesn't end with him in federal custody."
"And if he calculates wrong?"
May you like
"Then we give the prosecutor a very good day." Dante looked at the street ahead.
"Take me back to the clinic."
