Chapter 6
The remaining mystery resolved more slowly.
And more ordinarily.
There was no secret rival waiting in the shadows.
No dramatic enemy from decades past.
The damage to Dante’s brakes was traced to a man employed by an outside vehicle-maintenance contractor.
He had been paid through one of the shell companies Julian discovered.
The person authorizing those payments turned out to be Gerard Sloan, a longtime financial administrator who had worked first for Dante’s father and later for Dante.
His motive was not revenge.
It was preservation.
Gerard had quietly diverted company money for years.
Marco had discovered irregularities before leaving.
Dante’s father had learned enough to become suspicious but died before fully investigating.
When Vanessa and Julian began reopening old records, Gerard feared that Dante would eventually discover everything.
The brake damage had been an attempt to prevent that.
The police handled the rest.
Dante gave them the records.
No private punishment.
No secret retaliation.
When I asked him about that choice, he looked genuinely puzzled.
“What else would I do?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You know what everyone thinks you do.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And everyone is often wrong.”
I smiled.
“I’m learning that.”
Gerard eventually admitted enough for investigators to reconstruct the history of the accounts.
Luca’s name had been forged because his reputation inside the family made transactions less likely to be questioned.
The discovery wounded him more deeply than he admitted.
One afternoon I found him sitting outside Bellini’s after giving a statement to investigators.
“You okay?”
“I dislike discovering that my signature has apparently had a more adventurous life than I have.”
I sat beside him.
“You could retire.”
“I have retired three times.”
“And?”
“Dante keeps having problems.”
“That seems inconsiderate.”
“Extremely.”
He smiled.
Then his expression softened.
“Marco believed I suspected he was alive.”
“Did you?”
Luca looked toward the street.
“For perhaps an hour.”
“What happened?”
“Dante’s father told me I was grieving and imagining things.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I wanted to.”
There was no anger in his voice.
Only regret.
“I could spend the rest of my life punishing myself for not asking one more question.”
“You could.”
He looked at me.
“That sounded ominous.”
“I was going to say it seems boring.”
Luca laughed.
“You really are terrible at consolation.”
“I’m a waitress.”
“You keep saying that as if it explains everything.”
May you like
Maybe once it had.
Not anymore.
