Chapter 7 - WHAT MARCO KNEW
Marco called me the next morning.
“Dominic.”
“You done?”
“For today.”
“How bad?”
“My lawyer says I should never ask the target of an investigation that question.”
“Your lawyer is irritating.”
“He learned from yours.”
I almost smiled.
Then Marco said:
“They asked about Bay Street.”
My body went still.
Seven years earlier.
Bay Street Market.
A small wholesale distributor in Brooklyn.
The owner, Samir Patel, refused to pay an illegal security assessment demanded by a Castellano-affiliated crew.
I had called Marco.
Handle it.
Two words.
A week later, two delivery vans had their tires slashed and windshields broken.
No one injured.
Patel paid.
At the time, I considered it efficient.
Now the memory tasted different.
“What did you tell prosecutors?” I asked.
“The truth.”
I closed my eyes.
“Which is?”
“You told me to handle it after I said Patel refused.”
“Yes.”
“I told Carlo Venti to make Patel understand delay would cost him.”
My stomach tightened.
“Carlo?”
“Yes.”
Carlo Venti later went to prison for unrelated racketeering.
“What did you think he would do?”
“Property damage.”
“Did I?”
Marco was silent.
“Marco.”
“I think you knew something like that would happen.”
There.
Not precise order.
Willful ambiguity.
“Did you say that?”
“Yes.”
Good.
Painful.
Correct.
Marco continued.
“They asked about three other businesses.”
He had answers.
So did I.
My attorney called an hour later.
“Expect charges.”
“When?”
“Could be weeks.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Continue cooperation. Do not destroy anything. Do not call anyone connected to old matters. Do not decide prison is morally cleansing and volunteer for unnecessary counts.”
I almost laughed.
“You really think I’m that bad.”
“I heard about your first date.”
“What?”
“Lucia talks.”
Traitor.
The charges came six weeks later.
Not racketeering murder fantasy.
Financial crimes.
Extortion conspiracy.
Illegal debt collection.
Obstruction tied to a years-old attempt to conceal a security vendor’s role after a civil complaint.
The indictment named me.
Marco.
Two former managers.
Several others.
News exploded.
CASTELLANO INDICTED.
MANHATTAN MOB BOSS FACES FEDERAL CHARGES.
FROM RIVERFRONT BID TO COURTROOM.
Emma’s attack appeared in every article even though the charges against me had nothing to do with hurting her.
That angered me.
Then I remembered journalism does not ask permission from my preferred categories.
I called Emma before the indictment became public.
“My lawyers say charges are coming today.”
Silence.
“What?”
I told her.
“Did you do it?”
“Some conduct, yes.”
“Are you going to plead guilty?”
“Not immediately. Some counts are broader than what I believe evidence supports.”
Good.
Not repentance as performance.
“What happens to the companies?”
“Independent board stays. I resign executive roles.”
She went quiet.
“Permanently?”
“I think so.”
“Because of charges?”
“Because I should have years ago.”
She breathed.
“Okay.”
Then:
“Do you want me to come over?”
Every part of me said yes.
Old instinct wanted to pull people into my house when afraid.
I asked myself the question her lawyer had trained into me.
Did she offer because she wanted to or because I sounded broken?
“I want you to,” I said. “But you don’t have to.”
“I know.”
Good.
She came.
Not to the mansion.
I had moved out two weeks earlier.
The mansion was being prepared for sale as part of corporate restructuring and because living in thirty rooms with staff I no longer wanted personally dependent on me felt ridiculous.
I rented a penthouse.
Still rich.
Let us not become dishonest.
Emma arrived carrying pizza.
“You ordered pizza?”
“I bought it.”
“Why?”
“You look like a man who will forget dinner.”
“I have food.”
“You have almonds and whiskey.”
I stared.
She had visited once before.
Apparently inspected my kitchen.
We ate.
No security inside.
One downstairs.
Agreed.
I expected comfort.
Emma gave me questions.
“Are you scared?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Everyone says that.”
“Because men like you confuse fearlessness with virtue.”
Harsh.
Correct.
“What are you scared of?”
“Prison.”
“Yes.”
“Losing control.”
“Yes.”
“People deciding I’m only the worst things I did.”
Emma looked at me.
“That one is not yours to control.”
I hated that.
“Do you think I’m only those things?”
“No.”
Relief came too fast.
She saw.
“Do not make my answer your acquittal.”
There.
Again.
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
Then she asked:
“What about Marco?”
“Charged too.”
“Are you angry he cooperated?”
“Yes.”
“Do you blame him?”
“No.”
“Both.”
I sighed.
“You and Lucia have ruined that word.”
Emma smiled.
Then:
“Did Marco choose what he did?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop trying to decide whether loyalty changes facts.”
I looked at her.
“How are you this annoying after being a housekeeper?”
Her face went still.
Wrong.
I knew instantly.
“Emma—”
“No.”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
She stood.
I stood too.
“Sit.”
I stopped.
She looked at me.
“I spent fourteen months in your house being the woman people walked past while I carried towels.”
“I know.”
“No, you know now.”
Same distinction her brother had taught me without meaning to.
“I supervised banquet teams before I worked for you. I handled my mother’s insurance appeals. I learned prosthetic billing because Evan’s first rehab clinic tried to charge for equipment we never got.”
I stayed quiet.
“I was never only a housekeeper.”
“You’re right.”
“And being a housekeeper would still not make intelligence surprising.”
There.
I felt ashamed.
Good.
“I’m sorry.”
She watched.
No immediate forgiveness required.
“I believe you.”
Not same as okay.
Then she sat again.
So did I.
“Pizza is cold,” I said.
“Your fault.”
“Yes.”
We ate cold pizza.
My arraignment happened two days later.
Not guilty pleas entered while counsel reviewed discovery.
Standard.
No dramatic denial.
Marco did the same.
Months passed.
Kolov was sentenced before my case resolved.
Emma gave a victim statement.
I did not attend.
She did not ask me to.
She told the court:
“I don’t need Mr. Kolov to be afraid of Dominic Castellano. I need him to understand that employees, bystanders, and families are not available tools in private business wars.”
I read that line in the transcript.
Twice.
Kolov received a substantial prison sentence under the plea.
Pavel and Anton received their own sentences.
Antonov less.
The criminal case ended for Emma in a formal sense.
Her body still ached in cold weather.
Her mother still had cancer.
Her brother still had no legs.
Life does not become symbolic just because a court closes a file.
Emma’s own life grew anyway.
At the Beaumont, she became assistant director of housekeeping after ten months.
She complained about budgets.
I loved listening.
We dated.
Slowly.
No moving in.
No paying family bills.
Once Linda needed a medication not fully covered.
I offered help.
Emma said no.
I did not ask twice.
Hospital social work and a cancer nonprofit helped cover part.
Emma paid the rest.
I hated watching money cause stress when I could erase it.
Therapy taught me a useful phrase:
Your discomfort is not an emergency.
I hated therapy.
Excellent sign.
Evan found part-time work doing accessibility testing for websites.
He bought his own custom chair after insurance denied an upgrade and a disability grant covered much of it.
I was allowed to contribute?
No.
He made that clear.
“You’re not buying my wheels, Scarface.”
“I don’t have a face scar.”
“Emotionally.”
I almost liked him.
Then my lawyers brought me a plea offer.
Thirty months recommended range if I admitted two conspiracy counts and obstruction.
Marco had a separate deal.
His range lower.
I stared at the papers.
“What if I go to trial?”
“Possible acquittal on some counts. Significant exposure on others.”
“Did I do the factual statement?”
My attorney looked at me.
“Yes.”
That was the question.
Not whether I deserved every allegation.
Whether the statement was true.
I read it.
I authorized collection practices knowing threats and property damage were foreseeable methods.
True.
I instructed subordinates using deliberately vague language to preserve deniability.
Painfully true.
I approved concealment of a security vendor’s role from civil investigators.
True.
No murder.
No invented violence.
My crimes.
I signed the plea.
Then called Emma.
“I did it.”
Silence.
“You signed?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Sentencing in three months. Could be around two years. Maybe more.”
She breathed.
“Okay.”
“Is it?”
“No.”
Good.
I laughed once.
“Will you come tonight?”
“Do you want company or absolution?”
The question stopped me.
“Company.”
“I can do that.”
She came.
No pizza this time.
Soup.
Apparently federal pleas require soup.
We sat on the floor because my rented furniture had still not arrived.
Rich men are incompetent at ordinary transitions.
Emma leaned against the couch.
I sat beside her.
Not touching.
Then she placed her hand palm-up between us.
I looked.
“Dominic.”
“What?”
“You can hold it.”
I did.
That was the first time she gave me her hand.
No gunfire.
No blood.
No crest.
No ownership.
Just a woman choosing contact with a man who could no longer pretend fear was the same thing as power.
May you like
For once, I did not ask what came next.
That was progress too.
