Chapter 10 - Carlo’s ToastCarlo Romano had always preferred lunch at noon.

Never breakfast.

Breakfast, he used to say, was for men afraid the day would outrun them.

At exactly twelve o’clock the next day, Carlo sat at his private table inside Belladonna, an Italian restaurant that had no sign outside and no prices on its menus. Judges ate there. Bishops ate there. Men under federal investigation ate there under fake names and left through the kitchen.

Carlo wore a navy suit, a red silk tie, and the expression of a grieving uncle.

When Allessandro arrived, Carlo stood with open arms.

“My boy.”

Allessandro did not embrace him.

Carlo let his arms fall slowly, smiling as if wounded. “Still angry.”

“Still alive.”

“Thank God.”

“Yes,” Allessandro said. “He seems to be paying attention this week.”

They sat.

A waiter approached with wine. Allessandro shook his head.

“Coffee.”

Carlo chuckled. “After yesterday, I would think coffee frightens you.”

“Only when family pours it.”

The waiter vanished.

Carlo’s smile thinned.

“You have been through a shock. Poison makes men suspicious.”

“It should.”

“Isabella is young. Frightened. Easily manipulated.”

“By whom?”

Carlo spread his hands. “Vittorio Vale, perhaps. Old debts. Old ghosts.”

“Dominic Sorrento?”

Carlo sighed. “You keep chasing dead men.”

“Dead men don’t send flowers.”

Carlo’s eyes flickered.

There.

Small.

Enough.

Allessandro leaned back.

“Do you remember my father’s last breakfast?”

Carlo looked bored now. Dangerous men often did that when fear came too close.

“Of course. A terrible morning.”

“He ate buttered bread.”

“So?”

“So did I yesterday.”

“A common breakfast choice.”

“Mr. Gray said my father didn’t die the way I thought.”

For the first time, Carlo’s hand paused near his water glass.

Then he smiled.

“Mr. Gray?”

“He’s dead.”

“A pity. I don’t know him.”

Allessandro placed a photograph on the table.

The old summer party.

Mr. Gray behind Carlo’s shoulder.

Carlo looked at it, then laughed.

“Allessandro. Do you know how many men came through our house over the years?”

“This one came through mine yesterday.”

Carlo’s smile faded.

“He entered my safehouse chapel last night to kill Emma Hayes.”

“A maid’s child,” Carlo said softly.

The words were almost nothing.

But they revealed everything.

Not “a child.”

Not “the girl.”

A maid’s child.

Disposable.

Allessandro’s face hardened.

“She has a name.”

Carlo studied him.

Then he laughed quietly.

“My God. It’s true.”

“What?”

“You care.”

Allessandro did not answer.

Carlo leaned forward.

“Your father had that weakness too. He hid it better, but he had it. Your mother. You. The staff who thought he was stern but fair. He never understood that love is a door enemies walk through.”

“And you?”

“I understood doors.”

The waiter brought coffee.

Neither man touched it.

Carlo looked at the cup, then at Allessandro.

“You think I poisoned Giovanni.”

“I think you helped.”

Carlo’s eyes cooled.

“Be careful.”

“No.”

The word made the table between them seem smaller.

Allessandro reached into his coat and placed his mother’s note beside the photograph.

Carlo read the first line.

His expression did not change.

But the color beneath his skin did.

“My sister-in-law was sentimental,” he said.

“She was murdered two months after my father.”

Carlo folded the note carefully.

“Accidents happen.”

“Yes. In our family, they happen when documents change.”

Carlo looked around the restaurant.

Every table seemed busy.

None truly were.

Men listened without looking like they listened.

Allessandro had chosen Belladonna because witnesses here were cowards, not fools.

They would remember what saved them.

Carlo lowered his voice.

“You are standing on an empire built by men who did worse than poison.”

Allessandro leaned in.

“My father built routes. My mother built loyalty. You built graves.”

Carlo smiled then.

Real smile.

Ugly smile.

“There he is. The prince with clean hands.”

Allessandro’s hand curled into a fist beneath the table.

“You wanted the Vale wedding.”

“I wanted stability.”

“You wanted control.”

“I wanted what your father denied me.”

There it was.

Not a confession in law.

But one in blood.

Carlo continued, voice smooth again. “Giovanni planned to cut me out. Over morality. Over some foolish belief that family money should not pass through certain channels. He was becoming weak.”

“So you killed him.”

“I survived him.”

Allessandro stood.

Carlo remained seated.

“You cannot prove anything.”

Allessandro picked up the coffee cup.

For one terrible second, Carlo’s eyes followed it with naked fear.

Allessandro smiled.

Then poured the coffee onto the table between them.

Dark liquid spread across the white cloth like a stain.

“I don’t need proof for you,” he said. “I need proof for everyone else.”

Carlo’s phone rang.

He looked at the screen.

His confidence returned.

“You may want to answer yours.”

Allessandro’s phone buzzed at the same moment.

Caleb.

He answered.

Caleb’s voice was tight.

“Allessandro. Isabella is gone.”

The restaurant noise seemed to fall away.

Carlo sat back, smiling.

On the table, coffee dripped slowly onto the floor.

“All women leave eventually,” Carlo said.

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Allessandro looked at him.

“No,” he said. “Some are taken.”