On Their Wedding Night, Matteo Found the Lie That Could Destroy Both Families

Sofia sat at the dining table wrapped in Matteo’s black cardigan because the hotel robe made her feel exposed. The sleeves reached her knuckles.

Rizzo spread photographs across the table.

The basement in Queens contained a metal chair, cut plastic ties, a stained utility sink, and a paper coffee cup from a deli near the DeLuca family’s funeral home.

“Could be planted,” Matteo said.

“It could,” Rizzo agreed. “But the cup is from yesterday morning, and the housekeeper next door saw a black Suburban arrive Wednesday night.”

Sofia leaned over the image.

“Who drives it?”

“Half of Brooklyn.”

“The left rear taillight,” she said. “Is it cracked?”

Rizzo enlarged the photograph of tire marks and a partial reflection in the mechanic’s window. The image was poor, but one red light appeared fractured.

“Carlo,” Sofia said.

“Carlo who?”

“Bellini. He handles my father’s private errands.”

Rizzo typed the name. “Address?”

“He lives with his mother in Bensonhurst, but my father won’t send Nico there.”

“What does Carlo do when he’s waiting?”

Sofia frowned. “What?”

“Everyone does something. Smokes, eats, calls a girlfriend.”

“He gambles.”

“Where?”

“On his phone. Sports mostly.”

Rizzo’s mouth tilted. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Matteo watched Sofia.

She had been nearly voiceless seven hours earlier. Now she studied photographs with a concentration that pushed fear temporarily aside. Her fingers still shook, but she used them. Every useful detail restored a fraction of her shape.

Rizzo sent Carlo’s number to a technician who monitored several private betting circles. Ten minutes later, they had a recent login near an industrial strip in Red Hook.

“Not exact,” Rizzo said. “The account bounced through two servers, but the phone’s location permission was on during a live bet.”

Sofia looked at Matteo. “He’s there.”

“He may be.”

“You said you needed both of us.”

“I do.”

“Then listen.”

Matteo disliked being instructed in front of Rizzo.

The dislike embarrassed him.

“What is in Red Hook?” he asked.

“My father owns a refrigerated storage company through someone named Paul Serra.”

Rizzo searched corporate records. “Serra Cold Logistics.”

“He used the back office for meetings.”

“Any other buildings?”

“A warehouse and two loading bays.”

Matteo picked up his jacket.

Sofia stood. “I’m coming.”

“No.”

Her face changed.

Rizzo suddenly became very interested in the laptop.

Matteo softened his tone. “You’re injured.”

“I can sit in a car.”

“No.”

“You don’t know the building.”

“You can draw it.”

“I don’t know all of it.”

“Then you’re not useful inside.”

The words landed harder than he intended.

Sofia’s jaw tightened. “I was useful when you needed an address.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you said.”

Matteo reached for patience and found very little.

“If your father has Nico there, he may also have armed men. You have cracked ribs and can barely lift a coffee pot.”

“I spilled it.”

“That proves my point.”

“No, it proves your tablecloth was in the wrong place.”

Rizzo coughed into his fist.

Matteo looked at him.

“I’m developing allergies,” Rizzo said.

Sofia folded her arms, then winced and lowered them. “You don’t get to lock me in another room because you think your reason is better.”

The sentence stopped Matteo.

Protection without choice is still a cage, Hall had nearly said.

He looked at the guards outside, the locked elevator, the suite key in his pocket.

He had removed Marco’s men and replaced them with his own.

“Stay with Hall,” he said. “Get the scans. Keep your phone. Rizzo will give you the direct number for the team. If we find anything, you hear it when I do.”

“That isn’t the same as coming.”

“No.”

“Then it isn’t a choice.”

“It’s the choice I can live with.”

She stared at him. “You mean the choice you can control.”

Matteo put on his jacket.

“Yes.”

He left before she could answer.

The Red Hook warehouse smelled of diesel, frozen fish, and bleach.

Matteo entered through the front office with Rizzo and four men while another team covered the loading bays. The receptionist had fled through a rear door before they arrived. Two DeLuca soldiers surrendered after a brief exchange of gunfire shattered a row of office windows.

Carlo Bellini was found in a break room with a pistol, three sports-betting apps open on his phone, and blood on his sleeve.

It was not his blood.

Rizzo pressed him against a vending machine.

“Where’s the kid?”

Carlo smiled, though one front tooth was chipped. “What kid?”

Matteo picked up Carlo’s phone from the floor. A basketball game played silently on the screen.

“You bet the under,” Matteo said.

Carlo’s smile faltered.

“Fourth quarter. Two minutes left. You’re down six thousand dollars.”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t. But your mother might when the people you owe visit her house.”

Carlo lunged.

Rizzo drove him back into the machine. Candy bars rattled behind the glass.

Matteo scrolled through the phone.

There were no recent messages from Marco. Carlo was not careless enough for that. His call history contained several numbers labeled only with initials. One had been dialed six times since midnight.

“Who is A.F.?”

Carlo said nothing.

Matteo called the number.

A phone began ringing somewhere in the warehouse.

Not in the office.

Below them.

Rizzo heard it too.

They found the basement entrance behind stacked pallets of frozen poultry. The door had been fitted with a new steel lock. One of Matteo’s men cut it.

The room below was empty.

A folding cot stood against the wall. On it lay a strip of silver duct tape, a plastic water bottle, and Nico’s tuxedo jacket.

Fresh blood stained one sleeve.

Matteo looked around.

The phone continued ringing from a shelf. It was a cheap prepaid model. Someone had left it deliberately.

Rizzo stopped Matteo before he touched it.

“Could be wired.”

A technician checked the device and found no explosive. On the screen was a video message.