Chapter 3 - Molly Opened Her Mother’s Last Box—and Found the Romani Name InsideMolly chose her apartment.
Gerardo hated the decision.
She could see it in the rigid line of his shoulders as he stood in the hallway outside her door at two in the morning.
But he had promised her a choice.
So he honored it.
That surprised her.
Three of his men checked the building before she entered. Another remained downstairs. Gerardo himself walked through her studio apartment without comment, though she saw his eyes catalogue everything.
The broken radiator.
The cold window.
The ancient hot plate.
The collection notices.
The Murphy bed.
The empty refrigerator.
Molly crossed her arms.
“If you say one word about the apartment, I’m throwing you out.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking several.”
“I was thinking about your landlord.”
“Why?”
“Because if I owned a building in this condition, I would be embarrassed.”
“You own half of Manhattan.”
“Not half.”
“Comforting.”
His mouth almost curved.
Then his gaze landed on the drawer containing the collection notices.
“May I?”
“No.”
He looked at her.
She sighed.
“Fine.”
Gerardo opened the drawer.
There were forty-three notices.
Different collection agencies.
Different addresses.
Same underlying creditor.
Warner Estate Holdings LLC.
Gerardo picked one up.
“This isn’t a legitimate debt collector.”
“You know that by looking?”
“I know because Warner Estate Holdings doesn’t exist.”
Molly’s stomach tightened.
“How can you know that?”
“Because shell companies are one of the few subjects in which I possess an unreasonable amount of expertise.”
She hated that answer.
She hated even more that it was useful.
Gerardo photographed several notices and sent them to someone.
Within minutes his phone vibrated.
He read the message.
His expression darkened.
“What?”
“The company is controlled through three layers of corporations.”
“And?”
“The final entity is registered in Delaware.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“It tells me someone spent money hiding ownership.”
Molly sat on the edge of the bed.
Her body had begun shaking.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that she had to clasp her hands together.
Gerardo noticed.
He did not mention it.
Instead, he walked to the hot plate and put water into a dented kettle.
Molly stared.
“What are you doing?”
“Making tea.”
“You’re a mafia boss.”
“I’m aware.”
“You make tea?”
“I contain multitudes.”
Despite everything, a laugh escaped her.
It was short and exhausted.
Gerardo looked over his shoulder.
The expression on his face changed when he heard it.
Molly immediately stopped.
“Don’t make that weird.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were about to.”
He returned to the kettle.
She watched him standing in her miserable kitchen wearing a shirt that probably cost three months of her rent.
The absurdity of it almost made the night feel unreal.
Then Molly remembered something.
A box.
She stood.
Gerardo turned.
“What?”
“My mother.”
“What about her?”
“She kept one box through every move.”
Molly dropped to her knees beside the Murphy bed.
She pulled out a battered blue storage container.
“I haven’t opened it since she died.”
Gerardo crouched several feet away.
He did not touch it.
Molly lifted the lid.
Inside were photographs, letters, an old rosary, school certificates, a cheap silver necklace, and a bundle of documents held together by a rubber band that had nearly disintegrated.
Her hands slowed.
She found a photograph of her parents.
James Warner stood behind Evelyn with both arms around her.
They were young.
Happy.
Normal.
Molly had forgotten they had once looked normal.
She turned the picture over.
A date.
And beneath it, in her mother’s handwriting:
Before everything.
Molly swallowed.
Under the photographs was an envelope.
Her name was written across the front.
Molly.
If she ever asks.
She froze.
Gerardo saw it.
“Open it.”
“You don’t get to tell me—”
“I know.”
His voice softened.
“I’m sorry.”
Molly stared at the envelope for nearly a minute.
Then she opened it.
Inside was a letter.
Molly read silently.
Her mother apologized.
Not for drinking.
Not for the constant moving.
Not even for the years of fear.
She apologized for lying about James.
Your father was not a gambler first.
He was a frightened man first.
He worked for people he should never have worked for.
He discovered where money was going and who was being paid.
When he realized children had been hurt because of one of the construction schemes, he wanted out.
He copied everything.
Molly stopped.
Gerardo watched her face.
“What?”
She handed him the page.
He read.
His jaw hardened.
The letter continued.
James had planned to give evidence to a federal prosecutor.
Someone discovered the plan.
The night of the fire, Evelyn had taken Molly to a neighbor’s apartment because James told her something might happen.
He stayed behind.
He expected men.
He did not expect fire.
Molly’s eyes blurred.
Her father had known.
He had sent her away.
He had saved her.
All her life, she had thought he had destroyed their family through gambling.
Her mother had allowed her to believe it.
The letter explained why.
Because hatred was safer than curiosity.
If Molly believed James had been a reckless gambler, she would never search for the people who killed him.
Molly pressed her fist against her mouth.
Gerardo said nothing.
Then she reached the final paragraph.
There was one name.
Salvatore Romani.
Molly’s eyes lifted.
Gerardo already knew.
He had read it over her shoulder.
“My mother knew.”
“Yes.”
“She knew your father ordered it.”
Gerardo’s face looked carved from stone.
Molly continued reading.
But the final line changed everything.
Salvatore did not act alone.
If anything happens to me, do not trust the man with the silver lion.
Molly looked up.
“What does that mean?”
Gerardo’s face had changed.
“What?”
“The silver lion.”
He did not answer.
“Gerardo.”
His hand moved toward his right cuff.
Molly saw it.
A small silver lion.
Her blood froze.
She backed away.
Gerardo immediately removed the cuff link.
“This was my father’s.”
“Get out.”
“Molly.”
“Get out!”
“It doesn’t mean me.”
“You’re wearing it!”
“Because it belonged to him.”
She grabbed the nearest object—a ceramic mug—and hurled it.
Gerardo moved aside.
The mug shattered against the wall.
His guards appeared at the door.
“Out,” Gerardo ordered.
They disappeared.
Molly was breathing hard.
“Who else wears that symbol?”
“My family used it.”
“Who?”
“My father. My uncle Vittorio. Several senior men.”
“Vittorio.”
Gerardo’s expression darkened.
“Your uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Brooklyn.”
Molly laughed without humor.
“Of course.”
Gerardo stood.
“My uncle handled collections for my father.”
Molly stared.
“Collections.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the drawer.
The notices.
Seventeen years.
“You think it’s him.”
“I think we need proof.”
“I don’t need proof.”
“You do if you want the truth instead of revenge.”
She turned on him.
“Don’t lecture me about revenge.”
“I’m not.”
“You kill people.”
His face hardened.
“Yes.”
“You ruin families.”
“Yes.”
“You built your life on the same system that killed my father.”
Gerardo absorbed every word.
“Yes.”
The lack of defense took some of the force out of her anger.
She expected denial.
Excuses.
He gave her neither.
“You don’t get to become a good man because you make tea in my apartment.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get forgiveness because your father was worse.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“What would you prefer?”
“I don’t know!”
Her voice broke.
That silenced both of them.
Molly sat down.
For the first time in years, she cried in front of another person.
Not delicately.
Not beautifully.
She folded forward and cried for the father she had hated because hatred had been easier than grief.
Gerardo remained across the room.
He did not touch her.
Ten minutes passed.
Then Molly whispered:
“Why aren’t you leaving?”
“Because you told me to get out when you thought the lion meant me.”
“It might.”
“No.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because seventeen years ago, I was twenty-three and in Sicily for eleven months.”
She looked up.
“Can you prove that?”
“Yes.”
“Then prove it.”
“I will.”
He reached the door.
Molly stopped him.
“Gerardo.”
He turned.
“If your uncle killed my father…”
He waited.
“I’m not going to let you protect him.”
Gerardo looked at the silver lion in his palm.
May you like
Then he closed his fingers around it.
“Neither am I.”
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