Page 61 of Beloved By the Irish

“I have an idea, but I was hoping you’d received confirmation on who is responsible yourself.”

Salvatore’s scowl deepens. “What are you talking about?”

With perfect timing, Benedicto steps out onto the balcony. His face is pale and drawn as he holds out a thick, unmarked manila envelope to his boss. “This was just delivered, Sir.”

“From who?”

“A bike messenger. No name.”

My fiancée’s father takes the envelope and dumps out the contents on the table.

I’m wondering why Benedicto looks so uneasy if he didn’t get the name of the messenger when he says, “He said you have one day to respond or else Miss Furnari’s fate will be sealed.”

It takes everything I have not to barge through the house and hunt down the messenger. There’s no point. If he’s connected to Diaz, he’s long gone by now.

Nero steps closer to the table and scans the envelope’s contents. He whistles low. “You were right, Declan. Diaz’s evidence is incriminating.”

“Luis Diaz?” Salvatore asks as he looks at the various photographs depicting a scene he, no doubt, knows all too well.

His stoic expression gives nothing away as he takes in the images of the warehouse where his son was shot and killed. That changes when he sees a picture of me standing at the edge of the warehouse holding my weapon in my hands.

Fury flickers in Salvatore’s eyes. “You.” Rage drips from his words. “You were there.”

There’s no point in denying it. “I was.”

He’s close to losing control. I can see it in the way his body shakes with anger. But somehow, Salvatore Furnari manages to hold it together and bite out a single word, “Why?”

“Because I was doing Enrique Santiago a favor.” I go on to explain the missing women from Harlem and Santiago’s belief they were being trafficked. “He asked me to investigate as a non-biased, third party. And I accepted the job.”

Salvatore looks like he swallowed glass. “Trafficking? Are you certain?”

I nod and motion to Nero who is holding the packet of information I’d given him at his apartment. “I have photos that show the caged women as well as copies of shipping manifests used to send them out of the city. Though, I’m certain far more remain here working as forced labor… in more ways than one.”

Disgust covers the Italian leader’s face as I speak. When I finish, he asks, “But what does this have to do with my family?”

Nero clears his throat. “I believe you already know, Father.

Immediately, the Don shakes his head. “No.” He stares at the crime scene photos. “Antony wouldn’t have been involved in such a thing.”

“Except he was.” Nero shoves a piece of paper in his father’s hands. “That is a copy of Antony’s bank statements going back two years before his death. He received wire transfers each month from a routing number that belongs to Luis Diaz. And here.” He forces another photograph into his hands. “This is proof Antony knew Luis.” The image shows the two men sitting at a bodega in Harlem, drinking beer like old friends.

Despite the evidence sitting in front of him, Salvatore continues to shake his head in denial. “This is a mistake. Antony was my heir. He did not need to do something like this.”

“You’ve always been blind when it came to Antony,” Nero accuses. “He was ambitious, but he was also greedy. And reckless. How many times did you have to lecture him to keep his behavior above reproach? To remind him that our family business no longer deals in low-level criminal activity? Antony craved danger. He wanted to befeared, not just respected.”

Nero’s words paint the picture of a man I knew through reputation only. Antony Furnari was a known brute. In the public eye, he played the part of an obedient son perfectly. But in the underbelly of society, he was a thug. He used his family name to intimidate men and women in the city’s seediest strip clubs, gambling dens, and bars.

Rumors said Salvatore didn’t know of his son’s behavior, but the man’s current resigned expression indicates he likely had an inkling as to his eldest son’s true nature. More than I thought.

Still, the desire to deny his golden child was anything less than perfect remains strong. “Why was this evidence not brought forward before now?” His eyes narrow in accusation.

“Police Commissioner Gasso wants to take down the entire enterprise,” I reveal the truth of what I’ve been covertly aiding the police with for the last couple of years. “They’ve been gathering evidence on the trafficking ring’s main players, but they didn’t want to do anything that might spook them.”

“And Antony’s death? What about that? Does the commissioner know who’s responsible for that?”

Here it is.

This is where I either lose Salvatore’s tenuous alliance or he accepts reality for what it is—a tragic accident. Either way, there is no avoiding the truth. I brace myself for either outcome as I prepare to explain myself.

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