Chapter 5

After that, I went through my contacts and made my first call to old Sal, my father's most ferocious enforcer. The phone rang for a long time before Sal's gravelly, congested voice came through. "Who is it? Got a death wish?"

"Sal, it's Maeve."

"Little Maeve?" He was instantly awake. "What's wrong?"

"Sal, I need a favor." I gave him the short version.

There was a long silence on the other end, followed by a heavy sigh. "Maeve, I told you back then, don't waste your heart on a boy who's ashamed of his own blood. Now look. He's brought a wolf to your door."

"So, will you testify for me at the council meeting?" I asked.

"Testify? At the council?" Sal's tone turned hesitant. "This… airing your dirty laundry in front of the bosses is humiliating. Why don't you just give in? For the old Capo's sake, settle this privately."

"He already served me papers, Sal."

"Sal," my voice was steady, but each word carried weight. "I've defended the territory Dad left with my life for six years. I even went into debt for one million, eight hundred seventy-four thousand dollars to support him. Now he wants to bring the Valenti family in to take everything from me. If it were you, could you swallow that?"

Sal spat viciously on his end of the line. "That ungrateful viper! Alright, I've got your back! When's the hearing? I'll be there!"

"Next Wednesday, nine in the morning."

"Good, I'll be there on time!"

After hanging up, I contacted several other old-timers who had worked for my father. Their reactions were surprisingly similar: first shock, then fury, and finally, they all agreed to testify.

My last call was to the underboss who ran the neighborhood's whispers.

The sky was bright now. The harsh morning light pierced the dirty attic window, casting a pale spot on the papers scattered across the desk. I stood up, walked to the small sink, and splashed my face with ice-cold water.

Four days left.

The afternoon before the arbitration, Nico called me in for a final run-through.

The place was messier than it had been five days ago. The large mahogany table was piled high with files, printouts, scattered photos, and ashtrays. The blackboard behind it was covered in arrows, names, and timelines, all pointing to tomorrow's meeting.

Nico looked like he had pulled several all-nighters. Gray stubble dotted his chin, but his eyes were sharp.

"You got everything?" he asked, handing me a coffee.

I nodded, placing the file folder I brought on the table. "The statements from the loan shark, the transcripts of his demands, the written testimonies from the old-timers, and the photos of Leo's real life in Europe."

Nico flipped through the social media screenshots at the top, a cold smile playing on his lips. "The 'independent artist who escaped the shadow of the mafia'? 'Surviving abroad by working odd jobs and painting'? He worked three jobs a day? Yeah, maybe on a Valenti yacht, in a Michelin-starred private room, and at an underground casino."

"The three a.m. he's talking about," I said, "is my three a.m. Closing the bar and counting the till until two, then waking up an hour later for a delivery at the docks."

Nico looked up at me, his gaze intensified for a second, but he didn't say anything. He continued flipping, picking up the copy of the black ledger and turning to the last page.

"The total you fronted him comes to one million, eight hundred seventy-four thousand dollars."

"I cross-referenced it with the shark's ledger. It's accurate to the dollar."

"I recorded every transfer," I said. "I was afraid I'd lose track one day."

Nico closed the ledger and leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, letting out a breath. "Maeve, tomorrow at the arbitration table, that rabid dog on the other side will attack you on three key points."

"First, whether this money really all went to fill his financial holes. Second, whether your secret recordings are admissible and if the council will recognize them. Third, whether a few boastful photos on the internet are enough to convict him of lying."

"Does the Mafia care if recordings are legal?" I asked.

"The street runs on 'trust,'" Nico stood up. "If you had recorded family secrets, it would be a death sentence. But you recorded your own brother's demands for money. That's self-preservation. In the eyes of the old-timers, not only is it within your rights, it's proof that you're meticulous."

"What's more damning," he paused, "is that when you match these recordings with what he posted online, his whole persona collapses. Online, he plays the part of a strong, independent artist who escaped the darkness. But in these recordings, he's crying and begging you for money, his words were sweet as honey."

"Not just asking for money," I said in a low voice.

"Right." Nico flipped through the transcript and pointed to a line. "'Maeve, if you don't give me the money, those Italian guys are going to kill me.' And this one, 'Sister, I'm the last shred of dignity the Conti family has. Do you want to see me trampled under the feet of the rich?' On the street, this might not be extortion, but it's the kind of thing that disgusts the old guard."

I stared at the printed words. I had been numb while transcribing them, but hearing him read them now, my heart felt like it was being squeezed by a rusty iron fist.

"Tomorrow," Nico continued, "Juliana will definitely play the sympathy card. She'll portray Leo as a little brother who was controlled by his older sister his whole life, with no one to turn to in Europe, completely ignorant of how the family business worked. She'll paint you as a power-hungry sister who used her sibling as a cash cow."

"How do I counter that?"

"Be yourself," Nico stared at me. "Tell the truth. Don't play the victim, and don't put on a brave face. The old foxes are good judges of character. Your trump card is ironclad evidence. They have nothing but some vague notion of bloodline inheritance."

He walked to the liquor cabinet and said with his back to me, "Maeve, I'll be honest. If we're just talking about the territory, you did overstep your bounds with his share. But in the world of the Mafia, there's humanity alongside the rules. The more evidence you present, the uglier Leo looks."

He said the last few words softly, but they were heavy.

"The strategy for tomorrow is simple," he said, turning around. "First, I hit them with the two million in blood money you poured into his life, proving that your contribution to him far exceeds the family inheritance. Then, I'll drop the recordings and photos to expose his facade. Finally, I'll have the old-timers step up to solidify your status as the acting boss."

He paused for a moment. "The most crucial step is that you have to speak for yourself at the end."