Chapter 6
Rocco listened to every recording.
He did not ask anyone else to summarize them.
Three hours.
Years of meetings.
His own voice.
Sometimes precise.
Sometimes careless.
Sometimes cruel.
None contained an instruction to forge signatures, divert supplier payments or threaten families.
But they contained something else.
A philosophy.
Do not bring me problems.
Bring me results.
Never let outsiders think we are weak.
If somebody blocks the club, remove the obstruction.
Dominic had preserved those sentences like scripture.
By the final recording, Rocco’s hands were clasped so tightly that the knuckles had turned white.
Frank sat across from him.
“You didn't order the crimes.”
Rocco looked up.
“No.”
His voice was hoarse.
“I just made sure everybody knew I valued outcomes more than questions.”
Frank remained silent.
Rocco stood.
“I’m going back to the bakery.”
Thomas Vance was preparing dough when Rocco arrived.
Maeve sat on a flour sack drawing with a broken crayon.
Rocco removed his coat.
Thomas looked surprised.
“You don't have to keep coming here.”
“Yes.”
Rocco’s eyes moved toward Maeve.
“I do.”
He told Thomas what he found.
The broad authorizations.
The recordings.
His own words.
Thomas listened without interrupting.
When Rocco finished, the baker wiped his hands on his apron.
“So what happens now?”
“I return what was taken.”
Thomas gave a tired smile.
“It isn't that simple.”
“No.”
Rocco agreed.
“But I’m starting there.”
Thomas glanced toward Maeve.
“Dominic told me you would never let this neighborhood embarrass your club.”
Rocco’s eyes narrowed.
“When?”
“Last winter.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Thomas looked at him.
“He said you were done begging poor businesses to cooperate.”
Rocco’s face hardened.
“I never said that.”
“I know that now.”
Thomas paused.
“But I believed him then.”
Maeve climbed down from the flour sack and walked over.
She held out her drawing.
It showed the bakery.
A small crooked building.
Three stick people.
Thomas.
Maeve.
And a tall man beside a wheelchair.
Rocco looked at it.
Maeve smiled.
“You can come when we have flour again.”
Rocco’s throat tightened.
Then Thomas said something that wiped the softness from the moment.
“There’s something else Dominic did.”
Rocco looked up.
Thomas opened an old metal cashbox beneath the counter.
Inside were copies of weekly payment receipts.
Not club invoices.
Not rent.
Cash payments labeled COMMUNITY STABILITY FUND.
Hundreds of dollars every week.
For almost two years.
May you like
Thomas pointed to the recipient line.
Every receipt was issued in Rocco Castellano’s name.
