My Don Married My Pregnant Sister So I Choose His Mafia Rival novel · Chapter 15 of 32
Chapter 15: What He Took
Ettore put his hand on the loading door above the agent's head.
He didn't push it.
He just held it there, so it couldn't open any wider.
"My wife doesn't answer questions on the doorstep," he said. "Neither do I. You have my lawyer's number. You've used it before."
The agent smiled at him.
It was a soft, wet smile, the smile of a man who'd sat in the front row at a sentencing.
"I'm not asking you, Sarno. You'll lie." He looked at me again, at Ettore's shirt, at my bare feet on the concrete. "I'm asking her."
"I wasn't on the pier," I said. "I was home on Todt Hill. Ask the police."
"I did. Two years ago." He took a card out of his breast pocket and held it out to me, not to Ettore. "Now I've got a witness. Somebody who saw your husband kneel over your father and go through his coat. Take something out. Put it in his own pocket."
I didn't take the card.
He tucked it into the gap in the door, between the steel and the frame.
"Your little photograph made my job harder, Mrs. Sarno. The families know my face now." He shrugged. "That's all right. I've got other ways to do my job."
"Get off my husband's step," I said.
"Ask him." He was already turning. "Before a grand jury does."
He walked to a gray car at the curb and drove away slowly.
The deckhand shut the loading door.
He looked at Ettore.
He looked at me.
He went to make espresso without being asked, which was how I knew he was scared.
I didn't turn around.
"Is it true?" I said.
Behind me, Ettore didn't answer right away.
That was the answer.
"Wait here," he said.
"No."
He went up the stairs anyway.
I heard him on the third floor, a drawer, then the scrape of something heavy.
When he came back down, he had a book in his hand.
It was a black missal with a cracked spine, the kind old women carry to Mass.
"My grandmother's," he said.
He opened it at the back cover.
There was an envelope tucked inside the lining.
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