Chapter 10 - The Wire and the Rose
Six months later, the wisteria on the Bedford terrace was in full, heavy bloom.
The clusters of pale violet flowers hung like grapes from the stone pergola, their perfume masking the scent of the hemlocks and the damp earth of the May morning.
I sat at the teak table on the terrace, wearing a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to my forearms, reading the morning edition of the Times.
On page four of the Metro section, a small headline sat beneath the fold:
FORMER MIDTOWN BROKER FOUND GUILTY IN BROOKLYN TAX SCHEME.
Marcus had been sentenced to thirty-six months at the federal correctional facility in Allenwood. No mention of the Lucchese family. No mention of Sal Moretti. No mention of the Red Hook docks. The report noted only that "an anonymous tip provided by a corporate compliance firm had alerted the Department of Justice to three years of irregular filings."
The screen door clicked open.
Dante stepped out onto the flagstones. He had abandoned his tie; he wore a cream linen jacket over a dark blue shirt, carrying two cups of espresso in white porcelain that had no saucers.
He set one down in front of me and leaned down, his lips pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the crown of my head.
"You're reading the gossip," he said.
"I’m reading the obituaries," I answered, turning the page. "Brenda’s catering agency went into receivership on Tuesday."
"Brenda was inefficient," Dante murmured, sitting opposite me and stretching his long legs out into the sun. "Her husband has been given a position at the terminal in Newark. He will make forty percent more than she did with the agency. She will not have to serve shrimp tails to senators."
I took a sip of the espresso. It was bitter, thick as oil, with a single grain of raw sugar at the bottom.
"The commission meeting is tomorrow," I said.
Dante’s eyes shifted toward the hemlocks at the edge of the lawn. The silver in them had settled into a quiet, summer gray, but the line of the scar through his eyebrow remained sharp and pale against his tanned skin.
"Yes."
"Sal Moretti will be there."
"Sal will be there," Dante agreed. "With his nephews. They have two new signatures on the city council zoning board. They think they can force a vote on the dry docks before the state budget is signed."
"They can't," I said, sliding a manila folder from under the newspaper. "I spent yesterday with the archives in Albany. Arthur didn't just have the deed to the Gowanus basin, Dante. He had the riparian rights to the low-water mark for two miles north of the canal. The state cannot approve a commercial permit without the consent of the estate."
Dante looked at the folder, then looked up at my face.
A slow, dangerous smile curved the corners of his mouth—the look of a man who had bought an army and discovered he had also married a general.
"You found the original patent?"
"From 1888," I said. "Signed by the governor. It was misfiled under 'agricultural drainage' because my grandfather didn't want the union to see it."
Dante reached across the table, took my hand, and turned it over. His thumb stroked the heavy green stone of the emerald, then moved to his own little finger, where the iron signet rested.
"We will show it to Sal tomorrow," he said. "After lunch."
A black sedan pulled up the gravel drive below the terrace.
Paul stepped out, his overcoat gone, replaced by a dark windbreaker that still didn't hide the bulk beneath his left arm. He didn't come up the steps; he stood at the base of the pergola, holding a small, silver tray.
On the tray was an envelope.
Not white. Pale gray, with an embossed seal that looked like a pair of scales crossed with a sword.
The Federal District Court for the Southern District of New York.
Dante didn't move. He kept his fingers entwined with mine, his thumb resting on my pulse.
"Paul," Dante said without looking at him.
"Boss," Paul said, his voice flat. "The United States Attorney just left two of these at the 72nd Street house. A third was served to your lawyer’s office in White Plains."
"The indictment?"
"No, boss," Paul said, his eyes darting once toward my face before dropping to the flagstones. "A grand jury subpoena. For Miss Hayes."
The warm May breeze seemed to freeze instantly against my skin. The wisteria smelled suddenly sweet, like rotting fruit.
Dante’s hand tightened on mine—not painful, but iron-hard, the signet pressing deep into my flesh.
"On what grounds?" Dante asked, his voice dropping into that absolute, terrifying quiet that had emptied the Sterling ballroom six months ago.
"The Arthur Hayes trust," Paul said quietly. "They claim the three hundred thousand dollars transferred in 1971 was not a private gift. They claim it was the initial capitalization of the Caruso syndicate's first loan-sharking book in Brooklyn. They’re calling it an un-indicted enterprise asset."
Paul took a breath.
"They're saying that if she owns the docks... she owns the syndicate."
I looked down at the table.
At the green emerald that had belonged to a woman who had buried three sons.
At the newspaper with Marcus's sentence on page four.
At the blue buckram folder that had sat in my grandfather's safe for fifty years.
The choice had never been between the diner and the mansion. The choice had been between being the deer or being the hunter.
Dante did not look at the subpoena. He looked at me, his silver eyes searching my face, waiting for the waitress to drop her tray.
"Emma," he whispered, his voice softer than the wind through the wisteria. "We have twenty minutes before the federal marshals reach the lower gate. I have a plane in Teterboro that can be in Palermo by midnight. You will never have to answer their questions."
I took a slow breath.
I looked at the silver tray in Paul's hand, then at the iron gates at the bottom of the hill where two black Suburbans with government plates had just turned onto the gravel.
I didn't reach for my coat.
I reached for my pen.
"Tell the marshals to wait at the door, Paul," I said, my voice steady, clear, and colder than the river water under the Gowanus pier. "And tell my lawyer to bring the 1968 ledgers. The government owes my grandfather thirty years of back rent on the third pier, and I’m going to collect it."
Dante stared at me.
Then, for the second time since I had met him, he laughed—a dark, victorious sound that echoed off the stone walls of the farmhouse.
He stood, lifted my hand to his lips, and kissed the emerald until the gold was warm against his skin.
"Let's go to court, Mrs. Caruso," he said.
May you like
The car doors slammed at the bottom of the drive. The boots hit the gravel.
And the door stayed open.
