Chapter 5
Anthony denied it for six minutes.
Then Hattie ruined him.
Not because she found courage.
Because she realized she had been lied to.
“You told me Salvatore would be removed.”
Anthony ignored her.
“Removed.”
Her voice rose.
“Not killed.”
Nolan turned toward her.
“You knew?”
Hattie looked at her husband.
“I knew Anthony wanted the old capos to break from him.”
“You knew about his mother.”
“Yes.”
My cousin didn't even look ashamed.
That was useful.
Shame complicates truth.
Self-preservation makes people much more cooperative.
“What about Ella?” I asked.
Hattie's eyes moved toward Anthony.
“He said she would go with Adelaide.”
My mother laughed bitterly.
“They were starving me.”
Hattie flinched.
For the first time, she seemed to hear how absurd her own belief sounded.
Anthony remained silent.
I walked toward him.
“If I died tomorrow, where was Ella supposed to go?”
“No one planned your death.”
“Hattie believes otherwise now.”
“She is panicking.”
“So am I.”
I smiled slightly.
“Mine just looks different.”
Anthony knew me well enough to understand that.
He looked toward the garden.
Then spoke.
“The Mercer meeting was supposed to fail.”
“How?”
“No shooting.”
“What then?”
“An insult.”
I waited.
Anthony continued.
“Mercer's men would believe you came to demand submission.”
“And mine?”
“Would believe Mercer refused peace.”
A manufactured insult.
Enough for both sides to walk away angry.
War continued.
Anthony remained necessary.
Nolan remained useful.
Hattie gained influence.
Simple.
Ugly.
But not murder.
“Then why ask who gets Ella?”
Anthony didn't answer.
I turned toward Nolan.
He looked confused.
Genuinely.
“You didn't know.”
“No.”
“Hattie?”
She shook her head.
That left Anthony.
Or someone above him.
I looked at my mother.
“Did anyone else come to you?”
Adelaide hesitated.
There.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I didn't know his name.”
Anthony's head snapped toward her.
Too fast.
Mother saw it.
So did I.
“What did he look like?”
“Older than you.”
She thought.
“Gray hair.”
Nothing useful.
“Anything else?”
“A cane.”
Anthony closed his eyes.
My bodyguards noticed.
One of them moved closer.
I stared at Anthony.
“Who carries the cane?”
“No one.”
Wrong answer.
I had not asked whether someone carried one.
I asked who.
“Name.”
Anthony said nothing.
My mother continued.
“Silver handle.”
The room changed.
I knew one man with a silver-handled cane.
Everyone my father's age did.
Leonard Carbone.
My father's younger brother.
My uncle.
Dead for nine years.
At least that was what I had been told.
I looked at Anthony.
May you like
His face had gone pale.
And suddenly my mother's starvation was no longer the worst secret in the house.
