Chapter 6 – THE MESSAGE FROM BOSTON
Marco’s private study was on the second floor. It was a room paneled in dark cherry wood, lined with books Marco never read but Frank had memorized.
I stood near the door. I had tried to leave to give them privacy, but Frank insisted I stay.
“You’re part of this now,” Frank had told me.
Marco inserted the micro-SD card into his laptop. He connected it to the large monitor on his desk.
Elena stood beside him. Frank sat in a leather armchair, Leo asleep against his chest.
Marco pressed play.
The screen flickered. It wasn’t hotel security footage.
It was a shaky webcam video.
Carlo filled the screen. He looked exhausted. He was sitting in a cheap motel room in Boston, the neon light from the window casting green shadows across his face.
“Marco,” Carlo’s voice crackled through the speakers.
Marco leaned heavily on the desk. He stopped breathing.
“If you’re watching this, I’m dead,” Carlo said to the camera. “And Elena finally found a way to get this to you safely.”
On the screen, Carlo ran a hand over his face. “I didn’t steal the money, brother. I knew the Morettis were bleeding us from the inside. I suspected the new girl you were seeing—Celeste. But I couldn’t prove it. And I knew if I accused her without proof, she would trigger a war we weren’t ready for.”
Carlo looked straight into the lens. “So I took the fall. I let you banish me. It was the only way I could get out of Chicago and track her contacts without her knowing.”
Marco gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white.
“I followed the money to Boston,” Carlo continued. “I found the vault. I found the proof. But they found me, too.”
Carlo smiled sadly. “I know you hate me right now, Marco. I know you think I broke your heart. But I did it to keep you alive. I did it to keep Elena alive.”
Carlo leaned closer to the camera. “You’re a good man, Marco. You always were. Stop trying to be the monster your enemies want you to be. Build something clean. Build something for Leo.”
The video cut to black.
Marco stared at the blank monitor. A choked sob tore from his throat. He buried his face in his hands, crying the ugly, shattered tears of a man mourning the brother he hadn’t been allowed to grieve for seven years.
Elena rubbed his back, resting her head against his arm.
Frank watched his son, his expression soft.
“He loved you,” Frank said. “He never stopped being your brother.”
Marco wiped his face, standing up straight. He looked at the black screen, then turned to his father.
“You gave the FBI the Moretti files,” Marco said. “What happens to our business?”
“The legitimate businesses remain,” Frank said. “The restaurants. The real estate. The shipping company. They’re clean.”
Marco nodded slowly. He looked around the study, at the heavy oak furniture, the expensive art, the shadows in the corners.
“I’m done,” Marco said.
Elena looked up. “Done?”
“With the violence. With the fear. With looking over my shoulder in my own house.” Marco walked over to the safe behind his desk. He spun the dial, pulled open the heavy steel door, and reached inside.
He didn’t pull out a gun or a stack of cash.
He pulled out a thick, leather-bound ledger.
“This is the last of the street accounts,” Marco said. He walked over to the fireplace, grabbed a brass lighter, and set the ledger on fire.
He tossed it onto the hearth. We watched the paper curl and burn, turning the violent history of the DeLuca family into ash.
“Tomorrow,” Marco said, watching the flames, “I step down as CEO of the holdings company.”
Frank frowned. “Who takes over?”
Marco turned and looked directly at his sister. “Elena does.”
Elena stepped back. “Me?”
“You have the brain for it,” Marco said. “You always did. And you don’t have the blood on your hands that I do. You can run the clean business. You can make it something Leo will be proud to inherit.”
Elena looked at her father. Frank smiled and gave a single, firm nod.
“What will you do?” Elena asked Marco.
Marco looked at the gold mockingbird pin sitting on the desk. He picked it up.
“I’m going to learn how to live,” he said.
Then, Marco turned and looked at me.
“Natalie,” Marco said.
“Yes, Mr. DeLuca?”
He walked over to me. He looked entirely different than the terrifying man I had met ten months ago. He looked human.
“My father doesn’t need an evening caregiver anymore,” Marco said gently.
My heart dropped. Despite everything, I needed this job. “I understand, sir.”
“But,” Marco continued, “Elena is going to need an estate manager to help run this house while she takes over the company. Someone who isn’t afraid to stand up to people who think they own the room. Someone who actually cares.”
He held out his hand.
“The salary is triple what you’re making now. Will you stay?”
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