Chapter 24: Pieces of Truth (Luca Moretti POV)
Chapter 24: Pieces of Truth (Luca Moretti POV)
The note on Raf’s fridge, You’re too late, is still burning in my head as we slip out of his apartment, the splintered door swinging behind us. Nico’s ahead, gun tucked in his waistband, his cap low, while Marco trails, cigarette glowing in the dark stairwell. I’m clutching Raf’s gambling slips, my knife in my other hand, flipping it open and closed to keep my hands steady. My humming’s back, that shaky ballad, barely audible over the creak of the steps.
“Pier’s our shot,” Nico says, hitting the street and heading for the truck. “Raf’s meeting the O’Connors at midnight. We get there first, catch him with the cash.”
I nod, tucking a curl behind my ear, but my gut’s screaming we’re missing something. Sal’s dead, the poem’s gone, and now this note, it’s like Raf’s always one step ahead. “What if he’s already gone?” I ask, climbing into the passenger seat. “That note wasn’t a bluff.”
Nico starts the engine, his hand on his cross keychain, rubbing it raw. “Then we tear the city apart,” he says, pulling onto the road. “Starting with the bar. Raf’s been using it as a drop.”
Marco leans into Nico’s window, blowing smoke. “I’ll check the docks,” he says, tossing his cigarette. “If Raf’s running, he’ll need a boat. Text me when you’re at the bar.”
“Got it,” Nico says, and Marco jogs to his car, the Chevy’s taillights fading as we peel out. The city’s alive now, neon signs buzzing, a drunk stumbling across the street. I pull out my phone, texting Vinnie: Raf’s on the move. Seen him at the bar?
Vinnie replies fast: Not tonight. But he was there yesterday, left a bag in the back. I show Nico, my thumb tapping the screen.
“Bag could be the cash,” he says, cutting through an alley, tires crunching gravel. “Or another setup.”
I pocket the phone, my knife flipping faster. “We check the trash,” I say. “Raf’s sloppy. He might’ve left something.”
Nico nods, parking behind the bar, a dive called Murphy’s with a flickering Open sign. We slip through the back door, the air thick with stale beer and fried onions. The place is half-dead, just a few regulars at the counter, a jukebox blaring some old rock tune. I head for the storeroom, where the trash cans are, while Nico checks the bar, nodding to the bartender, Tommy, who’s wiping a glass.
“You seen Raf?” Nico asks, leaning on the counter, his voice casual but sharp.
Tommy shakes his head, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “Not since last night. He was in a hurry, grabbed a bottle and split.”
I’m already at the trash can, pulling on gloves from my pocket to dig through the mess, napkins, bottle caps, a broken glass. My fingers hit paper, and I pull out a crumpled receipt, smoothing it on the floor. It’s for a cash deposit, $50,000, dated yesterday, to an offshore account with an O’Connor front’s name. My pulse spikes, and I wave Nico over, holding it up.
“Look at this,” I say, my voice low, handing him the receipt. “It’s the missing money. Raf’s laundering it.”
Nico stares at it, his thumb rubbing his cross, his jaw tight. “This ties him to the O’Connors,” he says, folding the receipt and pocketing it. “But it doesn’t tell us where he is.”
I stand, peeling off the gloves and tossing them in the can. “We take it to Antonio,” I say, grabbing a crate of glasses and carrying it to the bar to blend in. “This proves Raf’s screwing us.”
Nico follows, grabbing a rag and wiping the counter, his eyes on the door. “Or we find Raf first,” he says, his voice low. “Confront him, get the cash back ourselves.”
I start stacking glasses, my hands moving fast, clinking glass on glass. “You don’t trust this?” I ask, nodding to his pocket where the receipt is. “It’s hard evidence.”
“It’s too clean,” he says, tossing the rag down. “Raf’s not this careless. Could be a plant.”
I pause, a glass in hand, and tuck a curl behind my ear. “You think he’s baiting us?”
“Or someone is,” Nico says, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and pouring a shot for a patron who’s waving him down. “Gia, maybe. She’s been too quiet.”
The patron, a guy with a leather jacket and a scar on his knuckles, grabs the shot and leans in. “You Nico?” he asks, his voice low, eyes flicking to me.
Nico stiffens, his hand dropping to his pocket, probably on his gun. “Who’s asking?”
“Vinnie sent me,” the guy says, sliding a napkin across the counter. “Said you’re looking for Raf. Check the pier, slip 17. He’s got a boat ready.”
Nico grabs the napkin, reading it, coordinates, scribbled in pen. “You seen him?” he asks, pocketing it.
The guy downs the shot, slamming the glass down. “Heard him on the phone, talking about a deal tonight. That’s all I got.” He stands, tossing a crumpled bill on the counter, and heads out, the door swinging shut behind him.
I stack another glass, my hands shaking now, and lean toward Nico. “Slip 17,” I say, keeping my voice low. “That’s our shot.”
Nico nods, but his eyes are distant, his thumb still on his cross. “Or another trap,” he says. “I don’t like this, Luca. Too many pieces falling into place.”
I grab another crate, carrying it to the sink, and start washing glasses, the hot water stinging my hands. “We can’t wait,” I say, scrubbing hard. “Antonio’s breathing down your neck. If we don’t get that money, ”
“I know,” Nico cuts me off, grabbing a glass and drying it, his movements sharp. “But if Raf’s playing us, we’re walking into a fight we might not win.”
I set a glass down, water dripping on the counter, and turn to him. “Then we call Marco,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Get him to the pier first, scope it out.”
Nico nods, grabbing his phone and texting Marco: Pier, slip 17. Raf’s there. Check it, now. He pockets it, grabbing another glass to dry, but his hand’s tight, knuckles white.
I stack the clean glasses, my mind racing. The receipt, the note, Sal’s death, it’s all connected, and Gia’s out there, pulling strings with the O’Connors. I’m about to say it when Tommy calls from the bar, “Luca, grab the trash!”
I nod, heading to the storeroom, grabbing the bag and tying it off. Nico follows, leaning on the doorframe. “You okay?” he asks, his voice softer now, his eyes on me.
“Yeah,” I say, hefting the bag. “Just… we’re running out of time, Nico. You gotta choose, trust the receipt or go for Raf.”
He steps closer, grabbing the bag from me and tossing it by the door. “I trust you,” he says, his hand on my shoulder, squeezing once. “But I’m not rushing in blind.”
I nod, tucking a curl behind my ear, and grab a broom, sweeping the storeroom floor to keep my hands busy. Nico’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it out, Marco: At pier. No Raf yet. Boat’s there, slip 17. Watching.
“He’s got eyes on it,” Nico says, pocketing the phone. “We head there soon, but we stay sharp.”
I lean the broom against the wall, grabbing a rag to wipe my hands. “And Gia?” I ask, my voice low. “If she’s with Raf, ”
“Then we deal with her,” Nico says, his voice hard, his thumb on his cross again. “But we need that money first.”
I nod, heading back to the bar, stacking more glasses, the clink grounding me. Nico’s right, we’re walking a tightrope, and one wrong move could end us. I’m reaching for another glass when my phone lights up on the counter, a text flashing on the screen. I grab it, my heart stopping as I read: From Gia, Meet me at the pier. Alone.