chapter 4

Antonio's POV

I squint at him. "Goading a man who has come all this way, hoping he'll take the bait isn't shrewd thinking. I'm not an idiot, Luigi. You are."

I raise my gun, my finger on the trigger.

And pull.

I walk to the door. Look at it. Should be made of reinforced steel or concrete, with a keypad for entry. The door is recessed into the wall, making it nearly impossible to break down with special seals around the edges to make them airtight, in case of a gas or chemical attack. This very one is designed to be impenetrable and has bulletproof glass windows for added security. So I don't waste my bullets. I tap the codes on the keypad, wait for the green light, and the hiss, then walk into the soundproofed room.

***********

"How did you get in here?" my uncle sputters.

I look at him coldly. He's sitting behind a workspace, clad in plain trousers and long sleeves. Both sleeves are folded to his elbows.

"Your security system is obsolete," I let him know. "I've been planning this for fifteen years, and I'm not going to let a locked door stop me."

His face turns red with anger. "You ungrateful little..." he starts to shout, but I cut him off with a bullet.

He falls on one knee, cursing. His eyes are wide with shock, and blood oozes out from the wound on his left thigh.

"You don't get to talk louder than me," I say, trying to lace my voice with as much rage as I can. "You betrayed my father, turned on him, even though he trusted you. And now, I'm going to make you pay."

His eyes widen in fear.

"Please," he says, his voice shaking. "There's been a misunderstanding. I never meant to hurt your father."

I smile. "Didn't you?"

"No. It's the truth."

I sneer at him. "Save it. Your time is up."

"Wait. I know you're upset, but please, just listen to me. I can explain everything. It's not what it looks like."

"Bullshit! Minchiata! You had your chance to explain, but you chose to lie to me instead. Now, there's nothing left to say."

His face turns pale. His hands clutch his thigh tightly. I can see that he wants to live, not bleed to death.

"It was the Carters. I tried, but they can be persuasive. And they had something on me. Please, don't do this. We're family. There has to be another way."

I shake my head. "You connived with another family to betray mine. And for that, there is no forgiveness."

Like a gourd, my uncle's eyes fill with panic. I level the Colt Python at his chest.

"Any last words?" I ask.

His mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound comes out. I nodded as if this was the answer I expected. "Thought so."

The gun's report echoes through the safe room, and Vito Valencio's body slumps to the floor, just like his guard. I stare at him for a moment, then turn and leave out the door. I came here for revenge, and now, I have it.

In the bullet-riddled hallway, I reach into my pocket and pull out a leather-bound book. Open it and flip to a page near the end. I run my finger down the list of names, finally stopping at the last name.

My uncle's. I cross it out with a pen.

Then I write another below it and fixate my eyes on the new entry.

The Carter family.

Someone is next.

I shut the book and tucked it back into my pocket. Retrieve a recorder from my other pocket and press the stop button. With my evidence, I walk out of the building, the recording weighing heavily on my mind. I think about the Carter family and the retribution I plan to bring down upon them.

**********

I love paintings.

It isn't just the picturesque it conveys, but the mystery behind that it unveils. The painting on the other side of the wall is the View of Toledo by El Greco. His art is always troubled, but triumphant. I wonder who among these people seated here is a follower of him.

In this particular painting, I note the contrast in color between the darkening, somber sky above and the glowing greenery of the hills below. Note also the restless swirl that permeates the whole picture, which lends support to the view of certain art critics that the artist was expressing the mysticism that infused the city at the time. At any rate, the over-arching sky, which defines the picture and gives the city its bleak mood, is surely El Greco's attempt to capture something of the over-arching authority and power of God's presence. But he does not stop there: he still finds time to add some details of human life. Downstream from the Alcantara bridge, using tiny brush marks, he reveals reflections in the water and washing spread out on the ground. Several tiny figures are fishing in the shallows armed with spears, while a figure crosses the stream on horseback.

Madame Giuliana taps one gold nail on the table. My eyes meet hers and I note the impatience on her countenance.

"Gentlemen," I begin, addressing the room of mafia leaders. "I have called you all here to discuss a matter of the utmost importance. You all know my father, how he died."

No one says anything.

"New information has come to light about his death."

"Is it the part where your uncle betrayed him?" Montagna asked.

"And more," I tell.

"Do tell," says Bianchi. He controls East Chicago and owns the Horseshoe Casino. Always playful, because he makes a lot of money, so he has less to worry about.

The thought that money can solve all things provokes me at times.

"I have reason to believe that the Carter family betrayed my father," I assert.

The room remains silent, all eyes fixed on me. Then they turn to the representative of the Carter family, who makes no move to debunk my statement.

"I wish to take action," I continue.