Chapter 13 - The Ledger of the Dead
The basement beneath the Moretti townhouse had once been a wine cellar during the Prohibition era, complete with brick arches that echoed every footfall like a cathedral nave. Now, it was where the past went to be audited.
Vince Moretti—the cousin who had spent three years managing the union funds while Antonio was in a coma—sat tied to a wooden chair with his trousers soaked through at the knees. He wasn't crying anymore; the shock had worn off three hours ago, replaced by the flat, greasy panic of a man who realized his life had been reduced to an itemized column on a spreadsheet.
Antonio walked down the spiral iron staircase with a kerosene lantern in his hand. The flame sputtered against the damp cellar air, casting long, jerky shadows across the wine racks, which were now stacked not with Bordeaux, but with cardboard boxes marked 1994–2005: Unresolved.
"Vince," Antonio said, setting the lantern on an empty cask.
"Anto—look, I swear to God, the numbers were balanced," Vince gasped, his voice rasped raw from screaming at the brickwork. "The shortfall in the sanitation contract—that was the commissioner! He wanted a thirty-point bump or he’d shut down the transfer stations!"
Antonio pulled out a silver pocket watch, clicked the lid open, and stared at the dial for twenty seconds before looking up. "Vince, do you remember when we were twelve? We stole that delivery truck from the bakery on Mulberry Street."
Vince blinked, his bloodshot eyes darting toward the darkness beyond the lantern light. "What? What does that have to do—"
"You ate four cream puffs before we even reached the bridge," Antonio continued, his voice conversational, almost nostalgic. "You threw up on my shoes. I took the blame from my father so you wouldn't get the belt." He closed the watch with a sharp clack. "I remember that every time I look at my boots. I also remember that you didn't throw up because you were sick. You threw up because you were greedy."
"I have family!" Vince wailed, his chair rocking against the concrete floor. "My kids—"
"Your kids are in New Jersey at boarding school," Antonio interrupted calmly. "They have trust funds, clean names, and a mother who doesn't know where the money came from. They will never have to shovel coal or count damp bills in a cellar." He leaned in close, the smell of rain and cold tobacco washing over Vince’s face. "That is my gift to them. My gift to you is that you won't have to watch them grow up into the kind of men who leave their cousins to rot in the mud."
"You're going to kill me," Vince whispered, the last of the air leaving his lungs.
"No," Antonio said, straightening his cuffs. "Killing you is paperwork. It requires filing reports with people in Chicago who don't care about family trees." He turned toward the stairs. "Damen will take you to the airport tonight. One ticket to Buenos Aires. There's a small apartment waiting, a monthly stipend of four thousand dollars, and a very clear understanding that if you ever buy a ticket back north, the plane will land in the harbor."
May you like
Vince stared at his retreating back, his mouth working like a landed fish. "Why? Why not just put a bullet in me?"
Antonio paused on the third step, his hand resting on the iron rail. "Because, Vince... the Moretti family is not a mausoleum anymore. We don't keep bones in the basement. We export them."
