She Cursed a Mafia Boss in Sicilian and Called Him a Dead Octopus — He Grinned and Said, "Say That Again, Looking Right at Me" Spotlight8

The second was that the people who lied best rarely raised their voices.

By Friday morning, she had discovered that the housekeeper never answered personal questions, the security staff used different entrances depending on who was visiting, and Matteo Costa had a remarkable ability to appear in a room precisely when a conversation became interesting.

She had also discovered that Gabriel drank his coffee without looking at it, read three newspapers before breakfast, and occasionally stood in the garage at midnight with the Mustang's hood open, staring into the engine as though it might provide answers no human being could.

She understood that last habit.

Machines were comforting because their secrets were finite.

A worn bearing made a noise.

A leaking hose left a stain.

An engine that refused to start had a reason, even if finding it required six hours, three diagnostic tests, and a level of swearing that would have offended a priest.

People were different.

People could know exactly what they were doing and still insist that the problem belonged to someone else.

Frankie was beginning to suspect that Gabriel's entire empire ran on that principle.

She arrived at Pier 44 shortly before seven, carrying two coffees and a paper bag of pastries.

One coffee was for herself.

The other was for Dominic.

She found him sitting in a temporary office beside the maintenance depot, his right leg elevated on a padded support, his face gray with pain and fury.

A pair of crutches leaned against the desk.

Dominic looked at the coffee.

Then at Frankie.

"Is that mine?"

"Depends. Are you going to complain about it?"

"Probably."

"Then it's yours."

He took the cup.

"You're a thoughtful woman."

"I'm a woman who doesn't want to hear you complain about hospital coffee."

"Same thing."

She sat opposite him and placed the pastries on the desk.

For a few minutes, they ate in companionable silence.

Outside, a forklift beeped as it reversed between two parked trailers. The harbor smelled of salt, diesel, and wet timber. The damaged SUV had been removed, the broken pallets replaced, and the bullet holes covered with temporary steel plates.

The warehouse looked almost normal.

Almost.

"How's the knee?" Frankie asked.

"Painful."

"That's not a diagnosis."

"Then your bedside manner is improving."

She leaned back.

"Did Costa tell you about the manifests?"

Dominic stopped chewing.

"He told me enough."

"Someone used your authorization."

"Apparently."

"Could it have been copied?"

"Anything can be copied if someone has enough access. But the manifest system requires a second confirmation from the operations office. My authorization alone shouldn't have been sufficient."

"So someone else approved the change."

"Or someone with the right credentials made it look as though they did."

Frankie considered that.

"Who has access?"

Dominic named five people.

Himself.

Gabriel.

Matteo.

The head of operations.

And a senior logistics coordinator named Adrian Vale.

"Who handles the actual paperwork?" she asked.

"Vale's department."

"Does he have a reason to redirect those containers?"

Dominic gave her a tired look.

"Everybody in this business has a reason to redirect something. The question is whether the reason is legitimate."

"And whether they're stupid enough to leave a trail."

"Now you're thinking like a Costa."

Frankie grimaced.

"Take that back."

Dominic laughed, then winced as the movement pulled at his injured leg.

"Don't make me laugh. The surgeon says it's bad for my recovery."

"Then stop being funny."

"Impossible."

She looked through the office window toward the fleet.

A row of heavy trucks stood waiting for inspection. Number 88 was among them, its engine rebuilt and its cab polished clean. Frankie had completed the initial repairs ahead of schedule, but the redirected manifests had put several planned departures on hold.

She hated idle machinery.

It was wasteful.

It was expensive.

And it usually meant somebody was making decisions without understanding what those decisions cost.

"Did you notice anything unusual before the attack?" she asked.

Dominic's expression grew serious.

"Not at first. Two days before the shooting, Vale asked me to verify a set of routing changes. Said the system had flagged an inconsistency."

"What kind of inconsistency?"

"Weight discrepancies. The listed cargo weights didn't match the scale readings."

Frankie sat forward.

"How much difference?"

"Enough to trigger a review. Not enough to stop the trucks automatically."

"Did you sign off on it?"

"No. I sent the discrepancies back for correction."

"To Vale?"

"Yes."

"What happened afterward?"

"He told me the issue had been resolved."

Frankie stared at him.

"Did you check?"

Dominic looked away.

"No."

It was the first time she had seen shame on the older man's face.

Not fear.

Not anger.

Shame.

He rubbed a hand over his beard.

"I've worked those docks for twenty-three years. I know every truck, every driver, every damn bolt in the maintenance bay. I trusted the paperwork because I was supposed to be able to trust the paperwork."

"You're allowed to trust people, Dominic."

"Not in this business."

"That sounds like a miserable way to live."

"It is."

He looked at her.

"You're not wrong, you know."

"About what?"

"Machines. You can find the fault if you keep looking. People are more complicated."

Frankie thought about Gabriel standing over the Mustang at midnight.

"Sometimes people are complicated because they're hiding something. Sometimes they're complicated because they're scared."

Dominic watched her carefully.

"And which do you think Costa is?"

She took a sip of coffee.

"Ask me again when I know him."

Dominic made a sound of approval.

"Good answer."

A knock sounded at the office door.

One of the warehouse supervisors stepped inside, carrying a clipboard.

"Dominic, the auditors are here."

Dominic's expression hardened.

"Which auditors?"

"Mr. Vale's team."

Frankie glanced at the clipboard.

Three names had been printed beneath the company heading.

The first two were unfamiliar.

The third was Adrian Vale.

She stood.

"How convenient."

Dominic caught her wrist before she could leave.

"Don't do anything foolish."

She looked down at his hand.

Then at his face.

"Define foolish."

"Anything that gets you shot."

"That's a remarkably broad category."

"I'm serious, Frankie."

She gently removed his hand.

"So am I."

Adrian Vale looked like a man who had never been surprised by anything in his life.

He was in his early forties, with silver beginning at his temples, a neat beard, and a dark suit that seemed designed to discourage personal questions. He stood beside the operations desk, examining a stack of shipping records while two junior employees waited nearby.

When Frankie entered, he looked up.

"Miss Moretti."

"Mr. Vale."

"I understand you're responsible for the maintenance fleet."

"That's what the paperwork says."

"Then perhaps you can explain why three of our vehicles are still awaiting clearance."

"They aren't awaiting mechanical clearance. They're awaiting valid routing documents."

His expression remained pleasant.

"Those documents are being reviewed."

"Good. Then there's no problem."

Vale placed the papers on the desk.

"You seem to have a talent for reducing complicated matters to simple statements."

"I work with engines. If a problem needs a twenty-minute speech, somebody usually wants to sell me a new part I don't need."

One of the junior employees looked down quickly to hide a smile.

Vale noticed.

His eyes cooled.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Miss Moretti, but logistics is not a matter of changing a filter and tightening a bolt. These operations involve legal obligations, financial exposure, and relationships that are considerably more delicate than a diesel engine."

Frankie looked at the documents.

"You're right."

He seemed surprised.

She continued.

"Which is why I assume you wouldn't want to release a truck with an unresolved discrepancy in its cargo records. That could expose the company to insurance claims, regulatory investigations, and a whole lot of expensive questions."

Vale's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Those discrepancies have been addressed."

"Then show me the corrected weights."

"That's not within your responsibilities."

"Neither is driving a truck with a questionable manifest. But it's my responsibility to make sure the equipment I maintain doesn't get sent into a situation where the driver could be blamed for somebody else's paperwork."

She held his gaze.

"If the records are correct, proving it should take about thirty seconds."

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Vale gathered the documents.

"I'll have the relevant records sent to Mr. Costa."

"Excellent."

He walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers.

It was probably accidental.

Probably.

But as he passed, he spoke softly enough that only she could hear.

"You're making enemies in a world you don't understand."

Frankie turned her head.

"Then they should be relieved I'm not trying to understand them. I'm just trying to stop their mistakes from blowing up my trucks."

Vale continued down the corridor.

She watched him leave.

The junior employee closest to the desk cleared his throat.

"He's not usually this pleasant."

"I'd hate to see him on a bad day."

The young man hesitated.

Then he glanced toward the corridor to make sure Vale was gone.

"Between us, Miss Moretti, those discrepancies weren't fixed."

Frankie looked at him.

"How do you know?"

"Because I entered the corrections myself. The system rejected them twice."

"Why?"

"I don't know. The original records keep reappearing."

He lowered his voice.

"I think somebody is changing them after they're submitted."

Frankie's stomach tightened.

"Have you told Gabriel?"

The young man shook his head.

"Mr. Vale said the system was undergoing maintenance. He told us not to create unnecessary confusion."

"What's your name?"

"Peter. Peter Walsh."

"Peter, I want you to do something for me."

He looked nervous.

"What?"

"Don't change anything else. Don't delete a record, don't try to fix it, and don't confront Vale. Save a copy of the rejection notices through the approved system and report the discrepancy in writing to the compliance office."

"But if Vale finds out—"

"Then the report will show that you followed procedure. That's better than being the only person who knew something was wrong and did nothing."

Peter swallowed.

"Do you think it's serious?"

Frankie glanced at the stack of manifests.

"I think someone is counting on everyone else being too frightened to ask a simple question."

She left him with the clipboard and walked toward the maintenance bay.

Her hands were steady.

Her thoughts were not.

She had spent years keeping her father's garage alive by learning to distinguish an expensive problem from a catastrophic one.

An expensive problem could be fixed with money.

A catastrophic problem was the one everyone ignored until it became impossible to hide.

The manifests were beginning to look catastrophic.

Gabriel called her to the estate that evening.

Not through a driver.

Not through a security guard.

He called her himself.

She answered while standing beneath the hood of a delivery truck, a work light balanced against the engine block.

"If this is about the Mustang, it needs a new part."

"It's about the manifests."

"Then it needs a new accountant."

A brief silence.

"Can you come to the house at eight?"

"Is this a request or an order?"

"A request."

"Good. I'll come when I finish here."

"I'll tell the kitchen to keep dinner warm."

"I'm not coming for dinner."

"Then I'll tell them to keep the food warm for me."

She hung up before he could respond.

At eight-fifteen, she arrived at the estate in her own battered pickup truck.

The security staff had clearly been instructed to expect her. The gate opened without the usual delay, and a guard directed her toward the main entrance.

She found Gabriel in his study.

The room was darker than the rest of the house, lined with bookshelves and furnished with a large desk, two leather chairs, and a fireplace that appeared to be decorative rather than functional.

A folder lay open on the desk.

Beside it sat a glass of untouched whiskey.

Gabriel stood near the window, speaking quietly into his phone.

"No. Freeze the release. All of it."

He listened.

"Then find another route."

Another pause.

"I don't care what it costs."

He ended the call.

Frankie leaned against the doorframe.

"You're going to bankrupt yourself with that attitude."

He turned.

"Good evening to you, too."

"How many trucks are being held?"

"Six."

"That's a lot of idle equipment."

"I know."

"How much is it costing you?"

"Enough."

She shook her head.

"You're very informative."

"You're very curious."

"Curiosity is cheaper than replacing a transmission."

He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.

"Sit down."

She remained standing.

He studied her for a moment, then nodded toward the chair again.

"Please."

She sat.

It was a small victory, and she was not above appreciating it.

Gabriel opened the folder.

"Dominic told me about the discrepancies. Peter Walsh has also filed a formal report. The records show that the weight corrections were submitted and rejected. Someone then replaced the original documents with versions that appear to have been approved."

"Can you tell who made the changes?"

"Not yet. The authorization logs are incomplete."

"That's convenient."

"Extremely."

She leaned forward.

"Vale told me the discrepancies had been resolved."

Gabriel's face became unreadable.

"When?"

"This morning. He was auditing the fleet. He said the records were being reviewed."

"And you challenged him?"

"I asked him to show me the corrected weights."

"What did he do?"

"He left."

A faint, humorless smile touched Gabriel's mouth.

"That sounds like Adrian."

"You don't trust him?"

"I trust very few people."

"That must make staff meetings exhausting."

"They are."

For a moment, the tension eased.

Then Gabriel closed the folder.

"Matteo believes the attack at Pier 44 was intended to steal the manifests. He thinks the rival syndicate may have someone inside the operations department."

"Matteo seems to have a lot of opinions."

"He has a great many."

"Do you trust him?"

Gabriel did not answer immediately.

Frankie watched him.

She had begun to recognize the difference between his silences. Some were tactical. Some were protective. Some were the pauses of a man trying to decide whether honesty would cost him more than a lie.

This one was different.

It was the silence of someone who didn't want to examine the question.

"Matteo is my brother," he said finally.

"That wasn't what I asked."

"No."

The answer was quiet.

And honest enough to make her uncomfortable.

Gabriel walked to the desk and rested his hands against its edge.

"Our father died when Matteo was twenty-two. I was twenty-six. The company was already in trouble, and several of our father's partners believed they could take control by forcing us to sell our interests."

"So you fought them."

"I did."

"And Matteo?"

"He helped."

"Did he want to?"

Gabriel looked at her.

"At the time, I believed he did."

Frankie absorbed that.

There was a story behind the answer. One involving grief, family loyalty, and decisions made under pressure.

She knew better than to assume that a man who controlled an empire could control the people he loved.

Sometimes the opposite was true.

"Have you asked him about the manifests?" she said.

"Yes."

"And?"

"He says he knows nothing about the discrepancies."

"Do you believe him?"

Gabriel's eyes held hers.

"I want to."

It was the first answer he had given her that sounded less like a strategy and more like a wound.

Frankie looked down at the folder.

"Then don't confuse wanting something to be true with having evidence that it is."

He let out a slow breath.

"My father used to say that."

"Was he right?"

"Usually."

"Then perhaps you should listen to him."

A faint smile crossed Gabriel's face.

"You've been here less than a week, and you're already telling me how to run my family."

"I'm not telling you how to run your family. I'm telling you not to let your feelings interfere with an investigation."

"Is that what you do when your feelings are involved?"

The question landed more sharply than she expected.

Frankie looked up.

"What?"

"When it comes to Leo. When he lost the money, did you look at the evidence and make a rational decision? Or did you try to save him because he was your brother?"

She felt the old anger rise.

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because I know Leo."

"And I know Matteo."

"Then you should know whether he would betray you."

Gabriel's expression hardened.

"People change."

"Yes," she said. "They do. Sometimes they get worse. Sometimes they get better. Sometimes they make a terrible mistake and spend the rest of their lives trying to hide it because admitting it would mean facing what they've become."

The room went quiet.

She hadn't intended to speak about herself.

But she was thinking about Leo.

About the years she had spent paying his bills, covering his mistakes, and telling herself that keeping him out of trouble was the same as helping him.

She had loved her brother so fiercely that she had almost allowed him to destroy the only thing their father had left her.

Love did not make people innocent.

It merely made their failures harder to confront.

Gabriel looked away first.

"Would you like dinner?" he asked.

The change of subject was so abrupt that Frankie almost laughed.

"Are you attempting to escape an emotionally difficult conversation by feeding me?"

"Is it working?"

"Not remotely."

He picked up his phone.

"Would you prefer to continue arguing on an empty stomach?"

She considered him.

"Depends what's for dinner."

"Steak."

"Medium rare?"

"Obviously."

"Then perhaps we can postpone the argument until after dessert."

He called the kitchen.

For the first time, Frankie wondered whether the estate's greatest security weakness was not its shipping system, its guards, or its complicated network of rivalries.

It was the fact that Gabriel Costa had apparently never learned how to have an ordinary conversation without turning it into a negotiation.

And, against her better judgment, she was beginning to enjoy teaching him.

Dinner was interrupted by Leo.

Not in person.

By telephone.

Frankie was halfway through her steak when her phone vibrated beside her plate.

She glanced at the screen.

Her brother's name appeared.

She answered immediately.

"Leo?"

For a second, she heard only breathing.

Then his voice came through, low and strained.

"Frankie, we need to talk."

She put down her fork.

"What's happened?"

"Nothing."

"That is the least reassuring answer you could have given me."

"I need you to come to the shop."

"Why?"

"Just come, okay?"

She heard a door slam on his end.

Then a man's voice, distant but unmistakably angry.

Leo swore under his breath.

Frankie stood.

"Where are you?"

"At the garage."

"Are you alone?"

A pause.

"Mostly."

Her stomach tightened.

"Leo, listen to me. If somebody is there with you, don't argue with them. Don't try to be clever. Just get outside and call the police."

"It's not like that."

"Then tell me what it's like."

He hesitated.

"I found something."

"What?"

"Something Dad left."

Frankie froze.

The dining room seemed to recede around her.

"What do you mean?"

"I found a box in the old office. It was behind the filing cabinet. I think it's connected to the property."

"Don't touch anything. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

She ended the call.

Gabriel was already standing.

"What happened?"

"Leo says he found something in the garage."

"What kind of something?"

"He won't tell me over the phone."

Gabriel reached for his jacket.

Frankie held up a hand.

"No."

He stopped.

She took a breath.

"I'm going to the garage. You are not going to send six armed men to surround the building, frighten my neighbors, and turn a family problem into a public spectacle."

"Someone may be targeting your brother."

"Then one discreet driver is enough."

"And if there's a threat?"

"Then we deal with it when we know what it is."

Gabriel watched her for several seconds.

She expected an argument.

Instead, he picked up his phone and spoke to his security chief.

"One vehicle. No visible weapons. Keep your distance unless I call."

He ended the call.

"I'll drive you."

She studied him.

"Why?"

"Because you asked me not to send six armed men."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the one I have."

She almost smiled.

Then she remembered Leo's voice.

The fear he had tried to hide.

She grabbed her coat.

"Fine. But if you start issuing orders in my garage, I'm charging you for the inconvenience."

Gabriel opened the door.

"Put it on the invoice."

They drove through the city in silence.

The streets were damp from an earlier rain, reflecting the lights of restaurants and late-night shops. People moved along the sidewalks carrying groceries, laughing into their phones, and arguing about parking spaces.

Ordinary life continued, stubbornly indifferent to the fact that someone might be trying to dismantle Gabriel Costa's empire.

Frankie watched the city pass.

She thought about her father.

About the old office she had barely entered since his death.

About the box Leo had found.

Her father had kept records of everything: repairs, invoices, customer accounts, even the names of people who had borrowed tools and never returned them.

He trusted paper more than computers.

He used to say that paper had a memory, and that people who wanted to erase their mistakes always started by destroying the evidence.

Frankie had thought it was one of his eccentricities.

Now, as Gabriel turned onto the street where the garage stood, she began to wonder whether her father had known something she didn't.

The shop lights were on.

The front door stood open.

And Leo was waiting inside, holding a small metal box in both hands.

He looked up when they entered.

His face was pale.

"Frankie," he said.

Then his eyes shifted to Gabriel.

"Oh, hell."