Chapter 4: The Man Who Called to Check If It Had Worked
Dominic Caruso arrived at nine the next morning in a charcoal suit and a dark tie, carrying a leather briefcase and an expression of carefully arranged concern.
He was sixty-one years old, silver-haired, and had been Adrian's attorney for eleven years.
He had drafted contracts, buried problems, and navigated three federal inquiries without leaving a mark.
He was, by any measure, one of the most capable men Adrian had ever employed.
He was also, Adrian now understood, a man who had made a phone call the previous afternoon to confirm whether his employer was d*ed.
Adrian was seated at the long table in the estate's main conference room when Caruso entered.
Marco stood near the window.
Two other men Adrian trusted — Nico and Sal — were positioned near the door, though they appeared to be doing nothing in particular.
"Adrian." Caruso's voice was warm with relief.
"My God.
I came as soon as I heard.
How are you feeling?"
"Sit down, Dominic."
Caruso sat.
He set his briefcase on the floor beside his chair and folded his hands on the table.
His expression was open, concerned, practiced.
"The staff are saying it was an allergic reaction.
Is that right?
Do they know how it happened?"
"They're still investigating," Adrian said.
"Well." Caruso shook his head slowly.
"Thank God you're all right.
If something had happened to you—"
"Tell me about Vincent."
The shift was small.
A tightening at the corner of Caruso's left eye.
A half-second pause before he spoke.
"Vincent Bellini?
What about him?"
"He resigned yesterday.
Did you know?"
"I hadn't heard that." Caruso's brow furrowed.
"That's surprising.
He's been with the family for decades."
"Twenty-three years," Adrian said.
"His last phone call before he left was to your office."
Silence.
Caruso's hands stayed folded on the table.
He did not move them.
That was the tell — a man with nothing to hide would have shifted, reached for something, made some small unconscious gesture of surprise.
Caruso went completely still.
"That's odd," he said.
"I don't recall speaking with him."
"You didn't speak with him," Adrian said.
"The call lasted nine seconds.
Long enough to hear a voicemail greeting.
Or long enough to confirm something with whoever answered."
"I'm not sure what you're suggesting, Adrian."
"I'm not suggesting anything." Adrian's voice was even.
"I'm telling you what the phone records show.
Vincent Bellini called your direct line at 4:47 yesterday afternoon.
Forty minutes after someone put concentrated peanut extract in my wine."
Caruso looked at him steadily.
"Adrian, I've been your attorney for eleven years.
I've protected this organization through things that would have destroyed lesser men.
If you're implying—"
"Who sent you?" Adrian asked.
The question was quiet.
It landed like a closed door.
Caruso's composure held for three more seconds.
Then something behind his eyes made a decision.
"You have no proof of anything," he said.
His voice had changed — the warmth was gone, replaced by something harder and more careful.
"A nine-second phone call.
Security footage of an old man with a vial.
That's not a crjme, Adrian.
That's circumstantial at best."
"You're right," Adrian said.
"It's not enough on its own."
He nodded to Marco.
Marco opened a laptop on the table and turned it to face Caruso.
On the screen was a bank transfer record.
Two hundred and forty thousand dollars.
Routed through a shell company in Delaware to an account registered to a Vincent Bellini in Boca Raton, Florida.
Dated six weeks earlier.
Caruso looked at it.
His jaw tightened.
"That account," Adrian said, "was funded from a holding company that your firm incorporated in 2021.
The signatory on the incorporation documents is your paralegal.
But the contact email on file is yours."
Caruso said nothing.
"The man who ordered this," Adrian said, "is not in this room.
You're not the architect, Dominic.
You're the instrument.
I know that." He leaned forward slightly.
"So I'm going to ask you one time.
Who hired you to arrange this?"
Caruso looked at the laptop screen.
Then at Adrian.
Then at the two men near the door.
"If I tell you," he said slowly, "what happens to me?"
"That depends entirely on how useful the information is."
Caruso was quiet for a long moment.
His briefcase sat on the floor beside him.
He looked at it without reaching for it.
"His name is Raymond Gallo," he said finally.
"He's been building a position in your harbor contracts for two years.
He needed you gone before the renewal in December."
Adrian sat back.
Raymond Gallo.
A name he knew.
A man he had underestimated.
"How many people does he have inside my organization?"
Caruso hesitated.
"Dominic."
"Three that I know of.
Possibly more." Caruso's voice had gone flat, drained of performance.
"Vincent was the only one with access to your personal medical file.
Gallo needed someone who could identify a method that looked natural."
Marco had his phone out.
He was already typing.
"One more question," Adrian said.
"The camera in my study.
The private one that was disabled three years ago.
Did Gallo's people do that, or was that already done when they found you?"
Caruso looked up.
Something crossed his face — surprise, or the ghost of it.
"That was already disabled," he said.
"They didn't touch it.
They assumed it was operational and planned around it." He paused.
"That's why Vincent used the tray.
They needed the footage to point somewhere else."
Adrian nodded slowly.
"Thank you, Dominic."
He stood.
Caruso looked up at him, reading the room.
"The deal you mentioned—" Caruso began.
"Marco will explain the terms." Adrian picked up his phone from the table.
"You'll cooperate fully with everything he asks.
Every name, every transfer, every communication.
In exchange, what happens to you will be considerably less permanent than what was planned for me."
He walked toward the door.
Caruso's voice followed him.
"Gallo won't stop.
You know that.
One failure doesn't change what he wants."
Adrian paused at the door without turning around.
"I know," he said.
"That's why I'm not going to wait for him to try again."
He left the room.
In the hallway, he stopped.
He stood there for a moment, his hand resting against the wall.
Down the corridor, through a half-open door, he could hear a small voice counting.
"One…
two…
three…
four…"
Ellie's voice.
She was somewhere nearby, counting something — coloring book pages, crackers, something only four-year-olds find worth counting.
May you like
Adrian stood in the hallway and listened until she reached ten.
Then he straightened, put his phone to his ear, and made the first call.
