Chapter 7 - The Ferraro Who Wanted His Throne
For the next fourteen hours, the Lombardi dining room became a war room built out of paper, laptops, cold coffee, and shattered trust.
My father sat at the head of the table.
For once, he did not lead.
I did.
It was strange how quickly everyone adjusted once there was no other choice.
Elena organized communications.
Sofia cataloged every document Matteo had produced, numbering pages and scanning them into a secure archive.
Cosimo’s forensic accountant joined us by encrypted video.
Two of my father’s oldest captains arrived before dawn, learned Matteo had betrayed him, and looked physically ill.
Cosimo barely spoke.
That worried me more than anger would have.
Luca had not merely been an employee.
They had grown up together.
Their fathers were brothers.
When Cosimo’s father died, Luca had stood beside him at the funeral.
When Cosimo became head of the family at twenty-nine, Luca had been the first person to swear loyalty.
Seven years later, that loyalty had apparently been worth twenty-three million dollars and a chance at a throne.
At five-thirty in the morning, I found Cosimo alone on the back terrace.
Snow had begun falling lightly over the garden.
He stood without a coat, both hands braced on the stone railing.
“You’re going to freeze.”
“I’ve been told I’m cold already.”
“That was almost humor.”
“I’m deteriorating.”
I walked beside him.
For a while we watched the snow.
Then I said, “How long did you know something was wrong with Luca?”
“I didn’t.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing I allowed myself to call suspicion.”
That answer sounded familiar.
“My father would say the same thing about Matteo.”
“Yes.”
“You’re angry at yourself.”
He looked at me.
“You have known me for less than a day.”
“I’m good with patterns.”
“I’ve noticed.”
He looked back toward the garden.
“Luca wanted more responsibility. I gave it to him. He wanted control over construction. I gave him that too. He complained that I made every final decision.”
“You did.”
“I was the boss.”
“Maybe he wanted the title.”
“He could have asked.”
I gave him a look.
Cosimo exhaled.
“Yes. I hear it now.”
“Powerful men are terrible at imagining anyone might want power from them.”
“That sounded personal.”
“It was.”
We stood in silence again.
Then he said, “My father used to tell me Luca was the brother I had not been given.”
I softened.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded once.
No performance.
No denial.
Just pain accepted as fact.
That made me trust him more than any display of toughness could have.
My phone buzzed.
Sofia.
I answered.
“Fran, you need to see this.”
We went inside.
On her screen was a set of scanned invoices recovered from one of Matteo’s binders.
“I ran the vendor names against your corporate index,” Sofia said proudly.
I blinked.
“You did?”
“You showed me how to use the search table last summer.”
“I showed you how to find catering expenses.”
“It’s the same buttons.”
She pointed.
“Marlowe Advisory paid this company. North Shore Grounds Management.”
Cosimo went still.
“What?” I asked.
He read the name again.
“The Gardener.”
My skin prickled.
The contract killer Dominic had mentioned.
“It’s a front?”
“Most likely.”
I opened the vendor record.
The company had received $300,000 in three payments.
The latest payment was marked with a reference code.
CL-1107.
Carlo Lombardi.
November seventh.
Tomorrow.
My father looked over my shoulder.
“So Dominic was right.”
I turned toward Cosimo.
“Can we stop it?”
“Yes.”
He said it with such certainty that I believed him.
He made two calls.
No details.
No drama.
When he returned, he said, “Your father does not go anywhere alone.”
My father bristled.
“I have survived sixty-one years without your permission.”
“And I would like you to survive sixty-two.”
I almost laughed.
Father did not.
But he did not argue again.
By noon, another piece broke open.
Sal Greco regained consciousness.
He confirmed Matteo had ordered Dominic shot after Dominic moved toward the man assigned to follow me in the ballroom.
More importantly, Sal gave Cosimo’s people the location where Tony Romano was being held.
Tony was recovered alive.
When Dominic heard, he cried.
I learned that from Elena, who had taken it upon herself to call the hospital.
“I thought you hated him,” I said.
“I do.”
She shrugged.
“One feeling doesn’t cancel another, remember?”
I stared at her.
“Have you been listening to Cosimo?”
“He’s annoyingly wise for someone terrifying.”
Across the room, Cosimo said, “I can hear you.”
Elena smiled sweetly.
“I know.”
By afternoon, I had enough evidence to prove the theft did not originate with me.
But proving Matteo and Luca’s motive was harder.
We had the recording.
We had the audit trail.
We had Sal and Dominic.
Yet the Council could still call them compromised witnesses.
We needed something neither man could explain away.
Money.
Money was always honest eventually.
I returned to the Marlowe structure and followed every transfer backward.
Three hours later, I found a trust in the Cayman Islands.
Two beneficiaries.
One identified through a coded family office number belonging to Matteo.
The second was more carefully hidden.
I worked another hour.
Then the name appeared.
LUCA FERRARO FAMILY TRUST.
I stared at it.
Cosimo stood behind me.
“There.”
He did not sound triumphant.
He sounded tired.
I reached for his hand without thinking.
He looked down at our fingers.
So did I.
I almost pulled away.
He closed his hand around mine.
Neither of us spoke.
My father noticed.
Of course he did.
He looked as if he wanted to object.
Then he looked at the evidence on the table and apparently decided he had exceeded his daily quota of bad decisions.
He said nothing.
At six that evening, I finally stood.
“I need a shower.”
Elena looked at my emerald gown, now wrinkled beyond repair.
“You needed one six hours ago.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Cosimo drove me back to his house because my own room at the Lombardi estate still smelled like smoke.
Rosa had left clean clothes in the guest room.
Simple black pants, a cream sweater, toiletries, even a new toothbrush.
After I showered, I stood in front of the mirror and barely recognized myself.
Twenty-four hours earlier, I had been a woman waiting to marry someone I did not love because my father told me to.
Now two criminal organizations were preparing for a Council hearing built around evidence I had uncovered.
My uncle had tried to kill me.
My sister had helped humiliate me.
My former fiancé had taken a bullet after changing his mind about letting me die.
And Cosimo Ferraro had kissed me in front of Chicago.
I walked downstairs.
He was in the library, tie gone, reading the forensic report.
He looked up.
For a second, he simply stared.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was definitely something.”
“You look comfortable.”
“That is a strange compliment.”
“It was not the first word that came to mind.”
Heat rose into my face.
I sat across from him.
“Why didn’t you ever approach me before?”
He closed the report.
“You were Carlo Lombardi’s daughter.”
“So?”
“So your father and I had an unstable business relationship, and I had no interest in using you to improve it.”
I studied him.
“You could have asked me to dinner.”
“You were engaged.”
“Not until six months ago.”
He hesitated.
That was unusual.
“What?”
“I assumed you would say no.”
I stared at him.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Cosimo Ferraro, feared by half of Chicago, was afraid I would reject him?”
“Afraid is not the word.”
“What is the word?”
“Correctly cautious.”
I laughed.
He smiled.
Then the room became quiet.
I looked at his mouth.
This time he noticed immediately.
“So,” I said, “the ballroom kiss.”
“Yes.”
“You said the strategic answer was only half the truth.”
“Yes.”
“And if there had been no strategy?”
He stood.
Slowly.
Then he walked around the desk.
He stopped in front of me.
“If there had been no strategy, I would have asked first.”
My heart hammered.
“Ask now.”
His eyes darkened.
“May I kiss you, Francesca?”
“Yes.”
This kiss was nothing like the first.
The ballroom kiss had been a declaration.
This one was a question answered slowly.
His hand touched my cheek.
Mine rested against his chest.
There was no audience.
No father.
No Syndicate.
No one deciding what it meant except us.
When we pulled apart, I was breathless.
Cosimo rested his forehead against mine.
“That was a terrible idea.”
I smiled.
“Why?”
“Because now I want to do it again.”
“You say that like it’s a problem.”
My phone rang.
Of course it did.
I groaned.
Cosimo’s mouth actually curved into a grin.
I answered.
Sofia was crying.
“Fran.”
I straightened.
“What happened?”
“Dad is gone.”
The warmth vanished from the room.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“He left the house thirty minutes ago. His driver thought he was with you.”
My stomach dropped.
“Did he leave a note?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
Sofia read it.
I have to fix what I allowed. Matteo asked to meet. I can end this before the Council. Do not follow me.
I closed my eyes.
“Of course he did.”
Cosimo was already reaching for his phone.
Then mine buzzed with an incoming message from an unknown number.
A photograph loaded.
My father sat in a chair in a dark room, alive but bruised, his hands restrained.
Beneath the image were two lines.
BRING THE RECOVERY PHRASE FOR THE OFF-SITE ARCHIVE.
OR CARLO DOESN’T MAKE IT TO THE COUNCIL.
I stared at the screen.
Cosimo read over my shoulder.
His face turned lethal.
“They want your archive.”
“No.”
I looked at the message again.
“They want the only thing that can prove how long Matteo has been stealing.”
Cosimo met my eyes.
“What are you thinking?”
I slipped the phone into my pocket.
“That my uncle still believes I’m the obedient daughter.”
“And?”
May you like
I looked at him.
“He is about to learn how expensive that mistake is.”
