Chapter 9 - The Reckoning at the Ballroom
The silence in the library lasted for five seconds, but it felt like the kind of time that happens when a car rolls over on the highway—everything slow, clear, and perfectly fixed in place.
Felix moved his gun from Enzo to Dante.
"Give me the ledger, Dante," Felix said. "The Moretti car is at the gate. If I don't walk out with the book in three minutes, they come in with the oil."
"The Moretti car isn't at the gate," a voice said from the hall.
Marco stepped through the door. He was holding the silver pistol Dante had given him, his coat dripping wet, a deep red gash across his forehead where a bullet or a stone had grazed him. "The Moretti car is in the ditch by the lane, Felix. Leo handled it with the truck."
Felix’s face didn't change, but his fingers tightened on the grip of the silver pistol. "There are more cars, Marco. The city is full of them."
"Then the city will be very quiet tomorrow," Dante said.
He didn't fire at Felix. He stepped between his brother and his father, his broad shoulders completely blocking Enzo from the silver pistol.
"Put it down, Felix," Dante said. "You're my brother. Our mother’s name is on the lighter in your pocket. If you leave this house with the book, you don't make it to the avenue. If you stay, we put the ledger in the fire and we tell the judge to die in his own time."
Felix looked at the book in his hand. He looked at Enzo, who was gently explaining to the spoon that the boys were having a small disagreement about the horses.
"He doesn't even know who I am," Felix whispered. His voice lost the dry, hard edge it had held since the garage. He sounded like a young man again—the twenty-six-year-old who had been sent away to New York in a closed car while his family stayed behind to pay the bill.
"He knows you're taller," Dante said softly.
Felix stood there for another moment, the rain scratching at the high windows like gravel. Then, with a short, jerky movement, he threw the black ledger onto the log in the fireplace.
May you like
The old paper caught instantly. The yellow edges curled into bright white flame, the grey ink of Enzo’s hand turning to black ash in less time than it took to breathe.
Felix dropped the silver pistol onto the desk. He didn't look at Dante. He didn't look at Enzo. He just walked past Marco into the dark hall, his heavy boots making no sound at all on the rug, and vanished into the rain before the bell on the pedestrian gate could even ring.
