Chapter 58 Clean Hands, Dirty Money
Matteo
The ocean always reeked of rot this close to the docks. Brine and corruption—an honest smell for an industry built on lies.
Rosco stood beside me, arms folded, watching the men offload crates marked as Italian olive oil. Inside, nestled beneath a layer of forged paperwork and bubble wrap, were two payloads: one of Havana’s finest cigars, the other of Colombia’s purest white lightning.
Big John and Little Ricky waited just beyond the shadow of the cranes, each with their own muscle—two men apiece, loyal and silent. Big John ran the blow. Little Ricky peddled pleasure and power, wrapped in Cuban leaves and government stamps.
I lit a cigarette—ironic, considering I never touched the cigars.
The cargo ship captain approached, sweat slicking his bald head despite the breeze. “You Genovese?”
“I am,” I said, flicking ash toward the concrete. “You’ve been paid.”
He nodded, wordless, and vanished like he couldn’t get back on that ship fast enough.
Next came the dock security guard, a broad-chested man with nervous hands. I passed him an envelope without a word. Then the beat cop, off-duty and already half-drunk, sauntered over and nodded at Rosco. Another envelope, another debt settled.
“It’s handled,” Rosco muttered, low and quiet, like always.
We oversaw the transfer—each crate loaded into separate vehicles. Big John would head north with his muscle, routing through a series of small towns where demand for powdered escape never ran dry. Little Ricky would take his cigars inland, straight to the cigar lounges and high-end shops that stocked our branded imports. Legal on the surface. Profitable beneath it.
Afterward, Rosco and I made our rounds—first the laundromats, then the car washes. Both were quiet fronts with dirty underbellies, the kind of places that didn’t ask questions when stacks of unmarked cash were dropped off and left to “cycle” through the books.
Each manager greeted me with a smile too wide and eyes that never held mine.
Rosco handled the cash drops. I reviewed the ledgers—meticulously falsified, just the way I’d taught them.
When we were done, I stood outside the last car wash, watching soap run pink down the drain like a slaughtered lamb bleeding out.
“Little Ricky says he’ll have next month’s shipment secured in twenty days,” Rosco said, checking his phone. “Big John wants a bonus for keeping the cops off his back.”
“He’ll get it,” I replied. “Assuming he keeps it quiet.”
Rosco glanced sideways. “And if he doesn’t?”
I smirked. “Then we find a Little John to replace him.”
He chuckled, then handed me a burner phone. “By the way. Carol called while you were busy playing bookkeeper. Said Valentina went shopping with Alessio. Came home with bags.”
The idea made me smile.
Let Arianna see what starving looked like from the outside.
“Good,” I said, sliding the phone into my jacket. “Let her enjoy the view while it lasts.”
We were almost to the next stop when Rosco leaned in a bit, one arm slung over the headrest, and said, “So… you wanna hit the club before we call it a day?”
I didn’t answer right away, eyes scanning the alley we just passed. “Which club?”
He gave me a look. “Which club do you think? Dolce Inferno. New girl started last week. Blonde. Fuckin’ bad as hell. Got one of those throat tattoos that makes you think about choking her for real.”
I arched a brow but kept driving.
Rosco grinned like the devil himself. “No gag reflex, boss. Swear to God. Bitch had her uvula removed. Says it messes with her symmetry or some shit.” He whistled low. “You gotta test drive this one before she gets snatched up by some other degenerate with a bigger wallet.”
He pulled into the next location and threw the car into park, engine still rumbling under us.
“Nah,” I said flatly. “Let’s finish the rounds and get back.”
Rosco blinked. “What? You serious?”
He gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn, boss. That ring on your finger already got you soft? Thought this marriage was for optics.”
“It is a show,” I said, voice low. “Doesn’t mean I feel like getting my dick sucked by a whore right now.”
I stared ahead, jaw set. “I’ve got Luca and Arianna to deal with. I can’t afford distractions.”
Rosco raised both brows and whistled again, this time with surprise. “Shit. You really married, huh?”
I turned my head, slowly, and looked at him. “I’m focused.”
“Yeah. Focused. That what we’re calling it now?” He leaned forward, pulling the folder from the glovebox. “Alright, alright. Man of virtue. Let’s get back to the spreadsheets and bullshit.”
But under his breath, he muttered, “Married-ass motherfucker…”
I ignored him. Mostly because I wasn’t sure if he was wrong.
I’d walked into this marriage with every intention of keeping Valentina at arm’s length. But lately… my arms weren’t stretching like they used to.
It was nearly midnight when we pulled into the drive.
The house was quiet—too quiet. No staff lingering. No kitchen sounds. No Valentina waiting up in some dramatic silk robe, wine glass in hand, playing the perfect wife in front of Alessio.
I walked straight to her suite, shrugged off my jacket, and knocked once before opening the door.
Empty.
Her lights were still on. The bed untouched. Her phone—her fucking phone—was on the desk. Lit up from a missed call. My name on the screen.
“Valentina?” I called, stepping in, eyes scanning the room like she’d be hiding behind the armoire.
Nothing.
I tried not to panic. Maybe she was with Alessio. Maybe she’d gone down to the kitchen for a snack or slipped out to the library for a book.
But she never went anywhere without her damn phone.
My stomach tightened.
I checked the bathroom. Closet. Courtyard.
No sign of her.
Calling her name louder now, I stepped into the hall, walking fast—too fast for someone pretending not to be on edge. I passed Carol on the stairs.
“Have you seen her?”
She blinked. “Who?”
“Valentina. Is she with Alessio?”
“I haven’t seen her since this afternoon, sir. I assumed she was resting.”
Fuck.
I turned, heading toward Alessio’s wing. Halfway there, a cold thought cut through the static in my head.
Luca.
That little snake hadn’t said a word all day. And Arianna? She’d been unusually quiet too.
If he touched her—if he so much as looked at her sideways…
I didn’t bother knocking on Luca’s door. Just threw it open.
Empty.
The bed was made. The lights off.
No one home.
I pulled my phone out and dialed Rosco. “I need you to check the perimeter cameras. Now.”