Behind her, Renata looked pale. “She walked right past the front guards. Past the dogs. Past the electronic locks. No one stopped her.”
“Don’t ever become like me.”
Stany Falcone had a rule: never let the sun set on a debt. For thirty years, he’d ruled the waterfront district of Verossa with a ledger in one hand and a quiet, unnerving smile in the other. Men twice his size crossed the street when they saw his silhouette. Women whispered that he could smell fear like blood in the water.
The room dimmed. The far wall flickered to life. Stany Falcone
But tonight, Stany Falcone sat alone in his vault.
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.
“Why me?” Stany whispered.
A knock came at the vault door. Three slow raps.
Stany studied the girl. “What’s your name?”
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. Behind her, Renata looked pale
“Stany—If you’re reading this, I’m already gone. And I deserved it. But the girl is innocent. She doesn’t know what I did. She only knows her papa loved her. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m asking for you to be the man you could have been, once, before you became this. Keep her safe. It’s the only debt you still owe.”
“Your house,” she said. “My papa used to work for you. Mario Tessitore.”