Dante looks out the window. “That’s what I said.” He’s quiet for a block. “Cassia straightened my tie before the Valentino meeting. Reached up and fixed it. In front of Enzo, Carlo, everyone. And I stood there. Let her. Because my body had already decided what my brain was still fighting.”
I remember. I watched him stand frozen while she adjusted his collar. The most dangerous man in New Orleans, paralyzed by fingers on his lapel. I thought it was weakness.
“Handle Morelli,” Dante says. Done. “I’ll deal with the rest.”
I open the door. Stop.
“Dante.”
He waits.
“The desk was four inches.”
“Gia rounds up.”
I get out. He doesn’t smile. But his hand lifts once from the folder. A gesture between brothers that doesn’t need translation.
Morelli’s warehouse sits off Tchoupitoulas. Not the same block as the Benedetti properties she flagged, but near enough that his expansion creates a jurisdictional problem if I don’t end it now.
Two men out front. I clock their positions without breaking stride.
Inside. Half-empty. Morelli behind a table like it makes him authoritative. Two more men flanking. One carrying, one not.
“Lorenzo.” Morelli stands. Smiling. Bad sign. Men who smile at me haven’t learned enough about what I do.
“Sit down.”
He sits. The smile stays but the muscles underneath it reorganize.
“You’ve been running product through the Seventh Ward corridor. Twice in March. Once last week.” I don’t sit. “That corridor belongs to us.”
“The corridor isn’t marked.”
“It doesn’t need to be. You know whose it is. Everyone in this room knows.” I scan the two men behind him. Neither reaching. Good. “This is the meeting where I tell you to stop. The next one won’t include words.”
Morelli’s throat tightens. He glances at his men. They study the floor.
“Dante could have called. We could have discussed this.”
“Dante doesn’t discuss territory. He assigns it.” One step closer. His chair scrapes back. “The Seventh Ward. The strip south of Tchoupitoulas. Whatever you’re running through the port authority. Done.”
“I have agreements.”
“Had. Past tense.”
The fluorescents buzz. The building is quiet except for the sound of Morelli’s breathing, which has gotten faster.
“We clear?”
He swallows. “Clear.”
I walk out. Sal has the engine running. I get in. We pull away. Two blocks south, Marco. Leaning against a storefront awning with two of our men, hands in his jacket, eyes on the intersection. He catches the SUV, lifts his chin once. Gets back to it.
My hand goes to my pocket. Not for the usual reason. For the phone. Checking. Not for messages. She’s still in the compound. Still in the office.
I put the phone down.
The compound is still when I get back. Late afternoon. The light through the windows has gone amber and the hallway outside the office is empty.
