Bound by Honor novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Docks Dinner

At Orazio's table in Brooklyn Bianca corrects his dock numbers in front of everyone, and Orazio moves the wedding up to three weeks.

Orazio Castellane's dining table seated twenty, and every chair was full.

It was Sunday night in Bay Ridge, and I had been in New York for nine hours.

The brownstone ran four floors above a garden level with a kitchen that smelled of garlic and bread.

Upstairs, the dining room had red walls, gold frames and a chandelier older than my father.

I sat on Orazio's right, in the place of honor, and I understood within five minutes that it was a stage.

"Carmine's girl," Orazio told the table, "reads contracts for fun."

A few men chuckled.

"Rosellis make good olive oil," said a man halfway down. "That's all they make."

"They make a lot of money making it," said another, and more men laughed.

My father sat at the far end between two Castellane captains, smiling politely and eating nothing.

He was staying at a hotel in Manhattan and flying home in the morning.

He had not looked at me since the soup.

"Bianca," Orazio said, and his voice dropped warm and teasing. "Tell us about the docks. You've had a whole day to study them."

I put down my fork.

Silvio sat across from me with his gold watch on the white tablecloth.

He was smiling.

"The Red Hook contract moves about nine thousand containers a quarter," I said.

"That's right," said Orazio.

"At the old rate, it clears four million a quarter."

"Close."

"It isn't close."

I wiped my fingers on the napkin.

"You told my father nine thousand containers."

"Your own port filing shows seven thousand four hundred."

The table went quiet.

"Where did you get that?" Silvio said.

"It's public. It took me twenty minutes on my phone in the car from the airport."

I turned to Orazio.

"The missing sixteen hundred containers aren't on your books or the port's."

"So either someone is moving them off the record."

"Or the number you gave my father was padded to make the deal look bigger."

Orazio did not blink.

"Which do you think it is?"

"I think I'd like to see the real ledger," I said. "Since I have a chair."

A man at the end of the table dropped a knife.

Silvio's smile did not move, but a muscle by his eye did.

"Careful, little cousin," he said softly. "Girls who come in and start counting things sometimes get lost in the arithmetic."

It was not a joke, and everyone in the room knew it.

I felt my father stiffen at the far end.

Before I could answer, a chair scraped.

Dario had stood up.

He was seated three places down on the other side, and I had not heard him say a word all night.

"Silvio," he said, mild as milk, "if you ever say that to my fiancee again, you will say the rest of it in the hospital."

"It was a joke."

"Then you've told it once."

The silence stretched across the table.

Orazio looked at his son.

Then the old man slapped the table once with an open palm and laughed so loudly the glasses rang.

"Look at this!" he said. "Three days a Castellane and she's already got my own boy standing up for her. Sit down, Dario. Eat."

Dario sat.

He didn't look at me.

Under the table, I found my hands were not quite steady.

When the plates were cleared, Orazio leaned toward me with a conspirator's smile.

"You surprise me," he said. "I thought you'd be a nice quiet girl."

"I'm a quiet girl who counts."

"Good. A family needs one. Come, I have a present."

He rose and tapped his cane against the floor.

The whole room turned toward him.

"A toast," he said. "My son's wedding, my friend's daughter, and a peace worth drinking to."

"Friends, I am tired of waiting."

"We marry in three weeks, not three months."

A murmur rippled down the table.

"Three weeks?" I said.

"Why not? The contract is signed. The church is booked. What are you waiting for, sweetheart, a better dress?"

I looked at Dario.

His face was blank, but his jaw was tight.

He had not known.

I could feel every man at that table waiting to see if the little Chicago girl would fold.

"The contract says three months," I said, clearly. "I signed three months."

"The contract says the date is by mutual agreement of the families."

"I'm part of one of those families."

Orazio's smile warmed.

He reached into his pocket and set something beside my plate.

It was a brass key on a worn blue ribbon.

"To the house," he said. "Your room is ready upstairs. Think about the date, Bianca. We'll talk tomorrow."

He kissed my forehead, and he walked out on his cane.

The table broke into noise.

I stared at the key.

It was old and heavy, and the tag on the ribbon was handwritten in faded ink.

I picked it up and turned it over.

The tag said, in a young woman's looping script, "Mine."

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