Page 16 of Deal with the Devil
Benjamin Sigler who had no documented history of mental health issues and exhibited little to no signs of depression, out of the blue decided to kill himself.
It wasn’t totally unheard of, but when you’re talking about someone who was rumored to have once worked for the mob?
It was more convenient than anything.
That’s not even getting into all the sketchy details surrounding Sigler’s autopsy report, like how it was “misplaced” for weeks only to magically turn up.
“I’m sorry about your uncle,” I say after a pause. “I didn’t know him well, but he did do the right thing in the end. He did want to speak out against the Belluccis.”
Ally releases a shuddery breath, staring at her hands in her lap. “It’s not just Uncle Ben they took. It’s Uncle Jacob too. They got him first. That’s what made Ben want his revenge.”
“I remember; he told me.”
“They don’t give a shit about the lives they ruin. The families they destroy.”
She’s wearing sunglasses, but I can tell she’s crying—the closer I look, the clearer the tears slipping down her round cheeks are. She sniffles and mops them away before digging inside the pocket of her hoodie.
“I was going through some stuff back at our house. Uncle Ben had his own apartment, but back when he was doing work for the Belluccis, sometimes he’d sleep over. Anyway, I went in his old room and came across some things that seem… I don’t know… important.”
My gaze drops to what she’s holding, which seems to be a few crumpled sheets of paper. Brows knitting, I accept what she hands over, taking a moment to process what I’m seeing.
The first is some kind of torn piece of notebook paper that appears to be in Benjamin Sigler’s handwriting. At the top it says directions and beneath there are line-by-line instructions on how to get to a written address.
It happens to be Carrick, the same city the freight train was supposed to arrive from the night I tried to track the drug shipments so many months ago.
“Is this…” I ask slowly. “Is this the address to the Belluccis’ lab? Where they develop Nectar?”
“I’m pretty sure it is,” Ally answers. “My uncle used to make some runs for them. Back when they were in the testing phase. Or so he said. I don’t know much more.”
My gaze returns to the papers in my lap, shifting to the second one, which seems to be some kind of shipping form. The document is so old the paper has yellowed and the ink has partially faded, but it’s still legible enough I can read the company name at the top.
“RossoVerde Biochemica,” I read aloud, scanning the rest.
The company address is in Ragusa, Sicily.
The items being shipped were pharmaceutical resin, botanical extracts, and aromatic solvents. For what purpose, I’m not sure. But the delivery address matches the one listed on the torn notebook paper in Benjamin Sigler’s handwriting.
“I’m not sure what that is,” Ally says as if voicing my thoughts. “But I noticed they matched so I brought both. Seems like they were shipping stuff for the lab. Maybe for whatever they were making?”
I don’t say anything. I’m too distracted by the last thing sitting in my lap.
It’s not a sheet of paper like I initially thought. It’s a grainy print of a photograph. Presumably taken in secret by Sigler with his cellphone, the photo shows some kind of lab with a group of armed men surrounding another man.
A masked man.
I recognize him immediately.
The night in the Bellucci warehouse comes back to immediately. I’d first gone to U4EA hoping to land a lead that connected the Belluccis to the new street drug only to follow Sergio Sacrimoni and his men to the Bellucci drug warehouse.
There sat Il Diavolo himself on his throne.
He was formidable and terrifying, a devil mask obscuring his true identity.
I recognize him in this photo—his dark suit and hair, the unsettling mask he wears, the natural air of confidence and dominance that he carried.
Just seeing a photo of him makes my stomach flutter. It sends a ripple of nerves through me, my breath running shorter.
I lick at my lips and mutter, “Thank you for bringing me this.”
