Chapter 19: The Warehouse

The Gallo warehouse sat at the far end of the port, behind a chain-link fence.

The same cranes stood over it where a sniper had waited on Friday.

I walked in through the side door at ten o'clock with my hands out where anyone could see them.

My phone was in my bra with the voice memo running.

Cesare was parked two streets away with four men and his jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

Gaspare had gone in an hour ahead of me, through a roof hatch.

He carried a pistol and wore a sling he didn't need anymore.

The warehouse was cold and enormous and smelled of salt and diesel.

Stacked crates rose around me in the dark.

Bianca stood in the middle of the floor, under one working bulb.

She wore a black wool coat, and her hair was loose, and there wasn't a tear on her face.

"You came alone," she said.

"You asked me to."

"I did."

She smiled, and it was my first look at the real one.

"You people always do what you're asked."

Two men stepped out of the dark behind her.

They had the same bored faces as the two in the gray sedan.

I didn't flinch.

"You said you'd tell me who killed Salvatore."

"I will."

She walked slowly around me in a circle.

"I'll tell you in Italian, so you can't say you didn't understand."

She said it in Italian first, soft and clear.

*Mio padre.*

My father.

*Con le pillole. Per tre mesi.*

With pills.

For three months.

I stood very still.

"Tommaso," I said. "He killed his best friend."

"He was patient," she said, in English now, to watch my face.

"Salvatore had a bad heart anyway. Papà only helped."

She tilted her head.

"And when Cesare took the chair, Papà made sure he'd never learn what the room was saying."

"And the basket?"

"The old woman talks too much. She sat in that chair for three years and watched."

Bianca shrugged.

"It should have been quick. You ruined that. I thought nurses were supposed to be slow."

"And me?"

"You were never supposed to understand a word."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

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