Page 17 of Possessive Mafia Vows

The old man rubs a hand across his jawline. “You think this has something to do with you?”

“I’m almost certain of it.”

“My motto is: if you’re looking for dirt, you will find it.”

I raise my glass to toast him. The motto’s meaning isn’t lost on me; if you’re looking for dirt, why not spread some of your own. But going down that route defeats the object and will only prove to Sienna that I am the person she thinks I am, a mafia lawyer who can bend the law to his own advantage.

“No can do. I’m missing something. No one is that impeccable.”

He smiles. “You’re looking in the wrong place.”

“Where should I be looking?”

“If you want to know what the branches are doing, you must first look at the roots.”

“His family?” Because with the analogy comes the realization that there was no mention of Nick Morris’s family in any of the information that I uncovered.

“You’re looking for a motive.” Mateo swallows a mouthful of cognac and studies the glass as if gauging how long it will take him to finish his drink. “I trust your instincts. When it comes to affairs of the heart, there is no greater muscle than your gut. So, to understand how someone works, you must first find out where they came from.”

“Back to his roots,” I mutter to myself.

“We are all shaped by the paths our ancestors trod before us. Sure, we find our own way. We meet our own crossroads and choose our own directions. But your choices will be different to mine. His will be different to yours.” He shrugs. “You get the picture. Find his baby photos and you will almost certainly find his motivation.”

I finish my beer with the don and thank him for his advice.

“I am honored that you came to an old man such as me for advice,” he says, and I can see the sadness in the fine red lines crisscrossing the whites of his eyes.

I head straight to my office when I get back to the Wraith, remove my jacket, and sit at my desk.

I spend a huge proportion of my time sitting at my desk, staring at the same computer screen in front of me now. But there’s a sense of serenity to be found in the evenings when the world outside the window is a myriad of blurred lights fighting for their place against the darkness and the rain. Is it the knowledge that the city is slowing down and preparing for slumber? Or is there comfort to be found in normality and solitude?

Powering up the computer, I resume my search for Nick Morris.

I didn’t go any further back than high school the first time around. Now, I take my time, focus on the information on the screen instead of on him and Sienna gazing at each other above a flickering candle in a strategically lit restaurant.

I check the records of the middle schools that feed into the John F. Kennedy high school that Nick Morris attended. His nameis there, Nicholas Morris, date of birth: 27 September 1983. Nothing extraordinary to be found.

But when I check out the kindergartens in the same area of the Bronx, I draw a blank.

Plenty of kids with the name Nicholas, but none with the surname Morris. I cross-reference the other children called Nicholas with the names of kids who attended high school in the Bronx, and they all check out. Which means that Nick Morris either didn’t attend kindergarten or his family relocated to the area in time for him to join middle school.

I fill the coffee machine and switch it on.

Time to go back even further.

The first mouthful of coffee is so hot it burns the roof of my mouth, but it helps me to focus. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.

I go back to the relevant high school records. From there, I take Nick Morris’s date of birth and, using a fake police identity, research New York state institutions for a birth certificate. As I suspected, he wasn’t born in New York State.

Systematically working my way through the states of America in alphabetical order, I reach the final one with no success. No record anywhere of Nicholas Morris born on 27 September 1983.

He was adopted. Or his name was legally changed before he started middle school.

I refill my cup with steaming black liquid; the coffee has barely hit my system yet, and I’m operating on adrenaline alone.

If you want to know what the branches are doing, you must first look at the roots.

Mateo Dragonetti may have been closer to the mark than he realized with his philosophical comment.

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