Chapter 5 - House Rules for a Mafia Boss
Stefano owned a townhouse in Society Hill that looked like a museum curated by someone who distrusted joy.
Gray stone.
Black iron.
Dark furniture.
No family photographs.
No clutter.
No evidence anyone had ever eaten cereal over the sink.
“This is where you live?” I asked.
“One of the places.”
“That is an extremely Mafia-boss answer.”
His mouth twitched.
A doctor was stitching his shoulder in the dining room.
The bullet had missed.
The glass had not.
I sat opposite him wearing borrowed sweatpants because my red dress was now inside a sealed garment bag being examined by one of his security people.
I hated that more than expected.
It was my mother’s dress.
Not evidence.
Not a clue.
Mine.
Stefano noticed me staring.
“They won’t damage it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I gave specific instructions.”
“That sentence somehow makes it worse.”
The doctor finished.
Stefano buttoned a clean shirt.
I looked away too late.
He noticed.
I hated that too.
“We need rules,” I said.
“Rules?”
“If I’m staying here.”
He looked amused.
“You think this is a negotiation?”
“Yes.”
“It isn’t.”
I stood.
“Then I’m leaving.”
Every man in the room froze.
Stefano stared at me.
I stared back.
Finally he sighed.
“Sit.”
“No. That sounds like a command.”
“Mara.”
“Rule one. You don’t order me around unless something is actively exploding.”
“There was a shooting three hours ago.”
“Nothing is currently exploding.”
His security chief turned away to hide a smile.
Stefano noticed.
“Anthony.”
The man straightened.
“Yes, sir?”
“Leave.”
Anthony left smiling.
Stefano looked at me.
“Fine.”
“Rule two. Nobody searches my belongings without telling me.”
“Fine.”
“Rule three. If men are following me, I know their names.”
“That is operationally inconvenient.”
“I don’t care.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. No lying.”
That stopped him.
“Complete honesty is unrealistic.”
“That sounds like something dishonest people say.”
“It’s something adults say.”
“Then we’re going to be childish.”
His gaze narrowed.
“You want every detail of my business?”
“No. I want every detail that affects whether I live through the week.”
He considered that.
“Fair.”
“And rule four.”
“There are four?”
“I’m just beginning.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Rule four?”
“You don’t kill anyone because of me.”
His eyes opened.
Silence.
“That one,” he said, “may be difficult.”
“Then work harder.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
The next two days changed the way I saw Stefano.
I had expected violence.
What surprised me was discipline.
He woke before six.
Read three newspapers.
Drank terrible coffee.
Called his people by name.
Never raised his voice.
And terrified everyone without trying.
Men entered rooms confident and left reconsidering their careers.
But with me, he behaved differently.
Not softer exactly.
More careful.
As though he had discovered a wild animal in his house and understood sudden movements were unwise.
Paula did not call again.
Barone remained silent.
The bank evidence was copied and secured.
My mother’s cassette could not be repaired without specialist equipment.
And Stefano refused to tell me what crimes had made him powerful.
That bothered me.
So I searched.
At two in the morning, sitting at his kitchen island, I read everything publicly available about Stefano Moretti.
Forty-six years old.
Never married.
No children.
Inherited control of Moretti Holdings at twenty-seven after his father’s death.
Ports.
Trucking.
Construction.
Waste management.
Restaurants.
Investigations.
Grand juries.
Three men who had testified against his organization later disappeared.
One body was discovered in Delaware.
I closed the laptop.
“You shouldn’t read about me after midnight.”
His voice came from the doorway.
I jumped.
“You move like a serial killer.”
“Occupational overlap.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“No.”
He entered wearing shirtsleeves.
No jacket.
No tie.
He looked less like the man newspapers feared and more like a tired person who had forgotten how to sleep.
“Did you kill them?”
He knew exactly who I meant.
“No.”
“Did you order it?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“Yes.”
I waited.
He didn’t continue.
“Rule four?”
“Rule four concerned killing people because of you.”
“Rule no lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re selectively existing.”
That got another near-smile.
I closed the laptop.
“Why didn’t you ever marry?”
His eyes shifted.
“That has nothing to do with keeping you alive.”
“I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because we’re awake.”
He poured coffee.
“At two a.m.?”
“I told you. The coffee is terrible. It may not contain caffeine.”
I waited.
Finally he said, “I spent most of my adult life believing attachment was leverage.”
“Against you?”
“Against everyone.”
“So you avoided loving people.”
“I avoided giving enemies names.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was efficient.”
I thought about my empty birthday hall.
“Efficient and lonely aren’t opposites.”
His eyes met mine.
Something passed between us.
Dangerous precisely because it wasn’t dramatic.
Then Anthony entered.
“Sorry.”
He was not sorry.
“We found what they were looking for in Mara’s apartment.”
I stood.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I frowned.
Anthony set photographs on the counter.
“The intruders tore open every garment bag except the red one.”
“Because I was wearing it.”
“Yes.”
Stefano stared at the photographs.
“Then why search the apartment at all?”
“To confirm she had it.”
My stomach tightened.
“The dress?”
Anthony nodded.
Stefano looked at me.
“What did Rose keep inside it?”
“Nothing.”
“Think.”
“I wore it dozens of times as a teenager.”
“Recently?”
“No. Mom wore it.”
“When?”
“All the time. Weddings. Christmas. Parish dinners.”
“After my father died?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
He came closer.
“Did she change it?”
“I don’t know.”
Anthony opened the garment bag.
My mother’s red dress lay across the counter.
Beautiful.
Ordinary.
Stefano ran his fingers near the hem without touching.
“This seam is newer.”
I stared.
“How can you tell?”
“My mother was a tailor before she married my father.”
That surprised me.
“What are you saying?”
“That someone resewed the lining.”
Before we could examine it, the townhouse alarm screamed.
Anthony reached for his weapon.
Lights went out.
The entire house plunged into darkness.
Stefano grabbed my wrist.
“Behind me.”
“That sounded like an order.”
“Something may shortly explode.”
“Fine.”
Footsteps thundered downstairs.
A man shouted.
Then three sharp shots cracked through the darkness.
Stefano pushed me into a small pantry.
“Stay.”
He disappeared.
My heart battered my ribs.
I heard glass break.
A struggle.
Another shot.
Then silence.
Thirty seconds later, emergency lights flickered on.
Stefano returned.
Blood marked his knuckles.
Not his.
“We caught one.”
I swallowed.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Rule four.”
“I remember.”
Anthony appeared behind him.
His face was grim.
“The intruder had this.”
He placed a phone on the counter.
One image filled the screen.
A woman outside a gas station.
Gray hair now.
Older face.
But unmistakable.
Paula.
A timestamp showed eleven minutes earlier.
Beneath the image was a message:
Bring Mara Bell to Pier 19 tomorrow at noon, or Paula Reyes dies.
I stopped breathing.
Stefano looked at me.
“No.”
“I didn’t ask yet.”
“The answer is no.”
“She called me.”
“She may be bait.”
“She is still my friend.”
“She abandoned you for nineteen years.”
“And apparently did it because people like you were getting murdered.”
His face hardened.
“You are not going.”
I walked closer.
“Remember rule one?”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“Mara, Barone wants you.”
“Then for once we know exactly where he’ll look.”
He stared at me.
The room seemed to contract around us.
“You think I’ll take you to Pier 19?”
“I think you’ll either take me or spend tomorrow trying to find where I escaped your house.”
His eyes flashed.
“That would be reckless.”
“Probably.”
“Stupid.”
“Maybe.”
“Dangerous.”
“Definitely.”
He stepped closer.
We were inches apart.
“What happened to the woman apologizing because she invited the wrong stranger to her birthday?”
“She met him.”
For a moment, Stefano looked furious.
Then something else.
Admiration.
Possibly fear.
Finally he turned toward Anthony.
“Double the perimeter.”
Then back to me.
“Noon.”
I exhaled.
“You’re taking me?”
“I’m taking you somewhere close enough to be convincing and far enough to keep you alive.”
“That sounds like compromise.”
“It isn’t.”
“Feels like it.”
He leaned down slightly.
“Mara?”
“Yes?”
“If you ever tell anyone I compromised, I will deny it.”
For the first time since the shooting, I smiled.
Then Anthony’s phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He looked at Stefano.
“The man we caught downstairs?”
“Yes?”
“He had a Moretti security credential.”
The smile disappeared from Stefano’s face.
Anthony continued.
“Current issue.”
Silence.
Someone inside Stefano’s organization had opened the door.
May you like
And suddenly my mother’s unfinished warning made terrible sense.
One of them lied.
