Chương 14
Vincent seized the back of Sal’s coat and dragged him away.
Sal rolled, pulled a small knife from his ankle, and slashed. The blade cut through Vincent’s shirt and opened a line beneath his ribs.
Reed shouted from behind the rack.
Vincent trapped Sal’s knife wrist against the floor.
The old instinct arrived cleanly. Break the wrist. Take the blade. Finish it before the police reached the stairs.
Sal saw the decision in his face.
“Do it,” he whispered. “At least be who you are.”
Vincent looked at the man he had trusted for twenty-six years.
Then he released the pressure enough to wrench the knife away.
He threw it across the cellar.
Sal laughed once, bitter and breathless. “Coward.”
“No,” Vincent said. “Witness.”
Reed emerged, kicked the pistol away, and placed Sal in handcuffs.
Officers flooded the stairwell seconds later.
They found Harlan wounded but conscious, Dario dying, Sal restrained, and Vincent kneeling in wine and sprinkler water beside the scattered pages of the ledger.
Vincent raised both hands.
An officer pulled his arms behind him and fastened cuffs around his wrists.
Reed picked up the wet ledger one page at a time.
“Storage room,” Vincent said. “Staff inside.”
Other officers ran upstairs.
The building filled with shouted orders, alarms, coughing employees, boots on tile, and water striking stainless steel counters. The small office fire was extinguished before it reached the kitchen. The restaurant staff emerged shaken and furious, several filming with their phones despite officers telling them to stop.
Modern disaster created its own audience before the smoke cleared.
Vincent was led through the kitchen.
Luis, a towel pressed to his bleeding forehead, stared at him from an ambulance stretcher. The prep cook with one earbud stood wrapped in a gray emergency blanket. Hector from Torino Imports had arrived after hearing the address on a scanner app and watched from behind police tape.
No one looked grateful.
Vincent did not expect them to.
In the alley, rain fell through the red and blue light. The Cadillac still idled where the officer had left it, rear door open.
It was almost the exact place where Sophie had stood.
Reed approached before Vincent was placed in a patrol car.
“You need medical treatment.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That isn’t how bleeding works.”
He looked at her. “Elena?”
“Stable. Tony is in surgery.”
“Marco?”
“At the hospital.”
“Harlan?”
“Alive.”
“Sal?”
“He wants a lawyer.”
“He has several.”
Reed hesitated. “Your servers.”
Vincent gave her the master access phrase. It was based on his mother’s birthday and the street number of the first Bella Vista, information Sal knew but would not have time to use before technicians secured the systems.
Reed wrote it down.
“You understand what this does?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Once we enter, there’s no partial version.”
“I know.”
“You could speak to counsel.”
“I will.”
“Before giving me more.”
Vincent looked at the glowing rear doorway. Firefighters moved in and out carrying equipment. Water ran along the curb and gathered around his black leather shoes.
“The child paid for one job,” he said. “Not another delay.”
Reed studied him, then closed the notebook.
At the hospital, Elena woke after surgery to find Sophie asleep in a chair beside her bed, curled beneath Teresa’s coat with both sneakers on.
Teresa sat by the window knitting with blue yarn she had found in a gift shop downstairs. She did not know what she was making. It had begun as a scarf and become too wide. She continued because her hands required employment.
Elena’s throat hurt from the breathing tube.
“Sophie,” she whispered.
The child woke immediately.
For a second she only stared. Then she climbed carefully onto the edge of the bed, avoiding the tubes and taped lines, and pressed her forehead against her mother’s shoulder.
Neither of them cried loudly.
Elena’s hand moved over Sophie’s tangled hair, checking, counting, confirming.
“You kept the shoes,” Elena murmured.
Sophie nodded against her.
“You did so good.”
“I told.”
“You were supposed to.”
“You said not to.”
“I was wrong.”
Sophie pulled back. “Mr. Torino found you.”
Elena looked toward Teresa.
“He did,” Teresa said.
“Where is he?” Sophie asked.
Teresa’s knitting needles stopped.
“With the police.”
“Helping?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Sophie understood more than Teresa wanted her to.
“Arrested?”
“Yes.”
“For saving my mom?”
“For many things that happened before.”
“But he accepted the job.”
Teresa put down the blue yarn. “Keeping one promise doesn’t erase the others he broke.”
Sophie looked at her mother.
Elena’s face was pale beneath the bruises. “She’s right.”
“Then why did you tell me to find him?”
“I didn’t.”
“You said bad men listened to him.”
“I said men at work were afraid of him.”
“That’s almost the same.”
Elena closed her eyes briefly. “I never wanted you near him.”
“But the police sent me home.”
“I know.”
“Mr. Torino didn’t.”
“No.”
Sophie touched the torn sleeve Teresa had repaired.
“He used you on the phone,” she said.
Elena opened her eyes.
“He put it on speaker. Mr. Sal hit you.”
Teresa looked down.
Elena took her daughter’s bruised hands. “Did he tell you he was sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Did that fix it?”
“No.”
“Then you understand.”
“Understand what?”
“That people can help you and hurt you in the same day. Sometimes in the same minute.”
Sophie considered this with the grave attention she gave every answer that adults usually simplified.
“Do I have to forgive him?”
“No.”
“Can I?”
“That belongs to you.”
Tony survived surgery.
The bullet had missed his liver but damaged his intestine. Infection kept him hospitalized for nine days, during which he complained about the television channels, the broth, the nurses’ refusal to let him walk unassisted, and Teresa’s decision to bring him homemade soup that contained enough salt to preserve a body.
May you like
Marco visited each afternoon.
For the first two visits, they discussed nothing important. Marco adjusted the blinds. Tony watched a game show and insulted contestants who could not answer questions about geography. On the third afternoon, Marco brought the newspaper.
