Chapter 5 - The Leak in the High CommandThe private jet slicing through the predawn clouds toward Gary, Indiana, was dead silent.
I sat in the leather captain’s chair, staring out at the infinite expanse of gray sky, turning Moretti’s words over and over in my mind like a jagged stone. A warehouse in Gary. Run by a guy named Heinrich.
It sounded too neat. Too easy.
In my world, information that comes too easily is usually a trap, or a deflection designed to lead a wolf away from the real sheep. Moretti was a coward; he would have given up his own mother if it meant buying another thirty seconds of life. But giving up Heinrich—a high-level chemist who serviced half the Midwest syndicates—felt like tossing a valuable pawn to save a king.
Across the aisle, Pietro was quietly cleaning his sidearm with an oiled cloth, his movements methodical and unhurried.
"You're quiet, boss," Pietro said without looking up.
"Moretti gave up Heinrich too fast," I said, my eyes fixed on the gray clouds outside. "A man like Moretti protects his chemists with his life. They’re harder to replace than capos."
Pietro paused his cloth, snapping the slide of his Beretta back into place with a sharp clck. "You think Moretti was playing us?"
"I think Moretti was buying time," I said, turning my gaze to meet my oldest friend's eyes. "Or I think he was directed to point us toward Indiana to keep us looking outward, while the real rot is sitting right behind our own front door."
Pietro’s expression tightened. "You're talking about the leak."
"Five months ago, when the hit was made on my car, only three people knew my exact route down to the minute: you, my driver, and Julia," I said, laying the cold math out on the table. "My driver was found dead in the harbor two days later with a bullet in the back of his head—loose end tied up by Moretti's crew. That leaves you... and Julia."
Pietro didn't flinch. He didn't drop his gaze or raise his voice. He simply met my stare with a heavy, profound sadness.
"You think I leaked your route, Adriano?"
"I don't know what to think, Pietro," I said honestly, the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours finally breaking through my armor. "My wife is dying in a dark room because she tried to fix a mess I didn't even know existed. My organization is riddled with holes. And the man who has stood at my right hand for twenty years is the same man who brought me photographs designed to make me divorce her."
Pietro laid his weapon down on the tray table between us.
"I brought you those photographs because you were destroying yourself," Pietro said steadily. "For five months, you’ve been wandering through your own house like a ghost, ignoring your capos, letting the docks slip, and drinking yourself to sleep because your wife wouldn't let you touch her. You thought she was cheating. You were ready to throw her away with an eleven-page settlement."
"And you let her suffer in silence to prove a point?"
"I let her protect you," Pietro snapped, his voice rising for the first time, sharp and iron-hard. "Julia made me swear on her life that I wouldn't tell you the truth until she was ready, or until she couldn't hide it anymore. She knew that if you found out she was dying for you, your focus would shatter. And in our world, Adriano, a boss whose focus shatters is a dead boss."
I stared at him, the tension between us stretching like a live wire ready to snap.
For twenty years, Pietro had never lied to me. He had taken bullets for me, laundered millions for me, and buried men who thought they could outsmart the Mancuso name. If he was hiding something now, it wasn't out of betrayal; it was out of a loyalty so absolute it bordered on madness—the exact same loyalty that had turned Julia’s lungs to stone.
"We land in twenty minutes," I said quietly, breaking the silence. "We’re going to Heinrich’s warehouse in Gary. But when we get back to Buffalo..."
"When we get back to Buffalo," Pietro finished for me, his voice softening, "you can put a bullet in my head if you find out I sold you out. But until then, your wife is still breathing air she bought with her own blood. Let's go save what's left of her life."
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The jet banked sharply, its wings catching the early morning light as the bleak, smoky skyline of Gary rose up through the clouds.
Little did we know, as the landing gear locked into place with a heavy thud, that back in the east wing of my Buffalo estate, Marta had just walked into Julia’s bedroom to check her oxygen levels—and found the room completely empty, the window wide open to the freezing winter wind.
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