LXXXIV. MATTEO ROMANO (POV)
The name hits hard in my stomach, and for a long second, I don’t really breathe. My fingers dig into the cover, and I only realize how tight I’m gripping when I see the veins bulging in my hand.
My teeth grind no matter how hard I try to appear unaffected.
I swallow hard, but the sound comes out way too loud.
And I also try to relax my shoulders, but the violence is already coursing through my veins, more addictive than adrenaline.
Enzo fucking Bianchi.
Again.
I let out a quick, dry laugh that lacked any humor.
Of course. Out of all the damn men in this cursed city, out of all the suited rats, and opportunistic sons of bitches crawling through Milan, the name that had to come up was his.
Bernardi and Vittorio stay silent, but I can feel both of their eyes on me—too attentive and cautious, waiting to see whether I’ll open the folder or break the desk in half with my bare hands.
“And what exactly does Gianni have to do with one of Bianchi’s men?” I ask, low, far too calm, and maybe that’s what really makes me dangerous right now.
“We can’t guarantee they were together. There’s no concrete evidence.” He pauses just for a moment. “But they were in the same places at the same time quite often, before Gianni disappeared… For three months, to be exact.”
Three months. That was when the unusual inspection took place, and the man in charge died in a very Bianchi manner. We did think the information had been leaked from the inside, but…
My face hardens, and my eyes sharpen, fixed on the old man in front of me.
I can’t trust this man.
Any of these Milan rats.
“What made you look at Bianchi’s men now and notice the connection?”
Bernardi hesitates because the answer to that question is a trap. There’s no way out of it clean, and maybe that very understanding is what drained the energy from him. Depending on his answer, he’ll be admitting guilt—either betrayal or negligence.
“I wasn’t looking before.”
He chooses the easiest path.
“You weren’t looking,” I repeat slowly, savoring every word, tasting his mistake on my tongue. “So you’re telling me one of your men spends three months going to the same places as one of Bianchi’s dogs, exactly when we suspected someone inside was running their mouth about our docks, and nobody in Milano got suspicious?”
I lean forward slightly and place both hands on the desk.
“Go ahead… Explain it to me without insulting me.”
“Because it didn’t seem like a connection,” Bernardi says, in a tone that’s too controlled to sound natural. “It looked like coincidence. Gianni had my trust. He wasn’t impulsive or ambitious, and I never had reason to doubt his loyalty. And Savio Coppola...”
He lets out a breath through his nose, clearly exhausted.
“Coppola isn’t a name that shows up in ordinary reports. We never imagined he and Gianni would have any connection.”
“That’s a weak excuse.”
“It’s the truth.” Bernardi presses the middle of his forehead again, frowning even more. “It was naivety. Ignorance. But whatever he was doing with Savio, it was discreet enough not to draw attention until someone started looking in the right place.”
I run my thumb along the edge of the folder and finally open it, scanning quickly, just enough to identify the records without digging deep.
There are photos and notes that are too dry for what they imply—times, restaurant names, parking lots, office buildings, two private galleries, a club in Navigli, and a decommissioned warehouse on the eastern outskirts.
Gianni De Angelis’s name appears too often near Savio Coppola, more times than any loyal man should permit.
It’s not concrete proof, I admit. These photos show they’re not together, talking, or even standing close to each other. But it can’t be just a coincidence either. Coincidences happen once or maybe twice. After that, it’s a pattern.
And in my opinion, a pattern is simply a polite way of labeling something as betrayal before anyone dares to say it.
I close the folder impatiently with one hand.
I’ll look at this shit later.
“And what about the woman?” I ask, my fingers itching to grab another cigarette, no matter how bad it is. “The one you said was involved with Gianni?”
“Her name was Maria Caruso.” This time, it’s Vittorio who speaks, in that hard, foolishly superior tone, as if knowing that earns him any credit. But if he were actually smart, he’d keep his mouth shut and let the old man burn alone. “But she won’t be a problem.”
I lift my head slightly, just enough to see him.
“...Her body was found a week ago on the outskirts of the city,” he adds, leaving a heavy silence behind his words.
Bernardi lets out a heavy sigh.
“Let me guess.” I turn my eyes back to Bernardi. “You weren’t looking at that either?”
“To be fair, there was no way to know...” Vittorio tries to cut in again, but I raise one hand and, with a brief, impatient gesture, silence him, without taking my eyes off the old man.
“Right. The woman died. Overdose?”
Neither of them denies it. Of course they don’t.
“And what about Savio? Where is he now?”
Bernardi shakes his head, thoughtful. “I don’t know. Probably with Enzo Bianchi. They’re usually seen together at major political events.”
“Security guard?”
“Not exactly. He doesn’t work with third-party companies.” He shakes his head and sighs again. “As far as we can tell, he’s a Fratello. Born and raised inside the core.”
“A Fratello,” I repeat, and the taste of those words in my mouth is bitter enough to make me want to spit on the polished office floor. “That makes me wonder... what other things the Società of Milano failed to notice...”
This time, I’m the one who sighs, moistening my lips, which are cracking from the cold... then I give a bitter smile.
“Hah, that’s a problem.”
I slowly reach into the pocket of my coat, and Bernardi and Vittorio both go on alert at the same moment. They know exactly what a Romano carries at his waist, in his pockets, and at his ankles. And more than anything, they understand the reputation that precedes me.
Unfortunately for them, the rumors about me aren’t lies. And maybe, if I’m being modest, they don’t even do justice to my true skills.
But it’s not my gun I pull from the inside pocket of my coat, no. What I toss onto the desk is a crumpled, poorly made pack of cigarettes that came into Italy on ships that aren’t ours.
Bernardi lowers his hands, as if the simple act of dropping his eyes to it might reveal some guilt. But when he finally does, something changes on his face. It isn’t exactly surprise, but an understanding of what that means.
“Terrible quality, isn’t it?” I ask, my voice low and almost lazy, which doesn’t match my violent posture at all. “Tastes like shit too. But, you know... I’ve been wondering something ever since some shitty dealer sold me this...”
Vittorio shifts uncomfortably in his chair and tries to hide it with a low, ineffective throat-clear.
“These cigarettes don’t come through our routes,” I say, lightly tapping the crumpled paper with my index finger. “They don’t come in through the docks we control. So what is this doing in Milan? Why are the dealers here selling this garbage instead of our things?”
I push the empty pack a few inches toward them.
But neither of them seems willing to even take a guess.
“What else aren’t you noticing at the Genova docks, Bernardi?”