He saw himself younger, sharper, standing on the weathered planks of Pier Thirteen. Fog curled around his ankles like a living thing. Opposite him stood Carlo Visetti, a man who’d once ruled Verossa before Stany had even learned to count cards.
“What?”
For the first time in thirty years, Stany Falcone laughed. And somewhere in the dark of his vault, on a silver spool labeled “The Pier, 1997,” the ghost of Carlo Visetti finally stopped whispering.
“Elena,” Stany repeated, tasting the word. “Do you know where you are?” Stany Falcone
“Alright, Elena Tessitore,” he said softly. “I’ll keep you safe. But you have to promise me something in return.”
“I know,” Elena said. She opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. “He wrote me a letter before he… before he went away. He said if I ever needed to be safe, I should come to you.”
He looked at Elena. She wasn’t afraid. She was watching him with the same unnerving stillness her father had once used when facing down a rival. He saw himself younger, sharper, standing on the
A knock came at the vault door. Three slow raps.
“Your house,” she said. “My papa used to work for you. Mario Tessitore.”
He took the letter. The handwriting was Mario’s—looping, hurried, like a man writing on a sinking ship. “What
“Why me?” Stany whispered.
“Elena,” she said. Her voice was steady. Too steady.
Stany read it twice. Then a third time. The vault behind him, with its silver spools of cruelty and triumph, suddenly felt like a tomb.
“Don’t ever become like me.”
Behind her, Renata looked pale. “She walked right past the front guards. Past the dogs. Past the electronic locks. No one stopped her.”