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Walking the perimeter of the room, I explore those shelves now, peering at the titles of the ragged tomes hidden behind glass and the faces in the many picture frames. They’re all of the Sinacore family. Nico and Gemma. Their children, Tony and Sofia. And Luca.
While Tony favored his mother, same fair complexion and black hair, Luca and Sofia are all Nico. Tan skin, dark-brown hair, and bright-blue eyes. I’m not above admitting that it’s a beautiful combination, and they made a beautiful family. Lord knows Luca is too handsome for my own good.
By the time I met them, their mother had died. So had mine. I was only ten years old and had no idea of what business the Sinacores were in. It didn’t matter. All I knew was that they’d lost their mom, and I felt that somehow bonded us. Luca didn’t agree.
I touch a picture of him that was probably taken around the first time I saw him. His hair was not as long as it is now, his body still scrawny, though he was already tall. He took my breath away, making my tummy tighten like it never had before. I literally fell for him. Right off the roof and onto his back.
I move away from the memories and stray over to a large desk covered with paperwork. Because I’m bored, I give in to my nosiness and peruse the items. Letters of condolence, sticky notes with figures, and investment statements for SinCorp Group.
I let out a whistle. Though I’m sure they were well off before—crime tends to pay that way—Tony certainly made it easier for them when he created the brokerage firm to “legitimize” it all. The amount of money in that single account is more than I’ll make in a lifetime.
But at least what I make is mine. Every cent to my name is a cent I earned. This money… I have no doubt it’s been laundered, bleached, starched, and folded into the perfect semblance of legality. Money stolen from some other criminal organization, but stolen nonetheless.
As that thought crosses through my mind, something else catches my attention. A folder with the name Bryan McKenzie written on it.
I’ve heard of him. It was in passing, a brief mention as I rushed into the kitchen for a quick breakfast before heading to work.
Daddy had been reading the news on his tablet when he looked up over the rim of his coffee mug. “Bryan McKenzie was found dead.”
“Who?” I asked through a mouthful of stale bagel.
“The Irish mobster from Boston.”
Shrugging, I shook my head and grabbed my purse with my free hand. “Shit, I’m late. Bye!”
That was the extent of it. I threw out any thought of that short conversation along with the bagel. Why would the death of a mobster matter to me? If anything, the fact that Daddy kept up with that world infuriated me. So there was one less criminal. It meant one less opportunity for my father to get mixed up in something and killed one day too.
Well, I guess my attempt at forgetting it wasn’t successful, because the moment I saw his name, I remembered it.
Bryan McKenzie.
I open the folder and gasp at the sight of the dead body. But I don’t look away. There’s this morbid fascination that makes it impossible to do so.
The photo is of a man laid out on a bed, naked, his gut sliced from groin to sternum. I slide the photograph over to find another, this one a close-up of his face. Squinting, I focus on the pennies that have been placed over his eyes.
Then something else catches my attention. Near the edge of the desk, I spot more folders. The first one has the name Tadesco written in black marker. In it, I find several photographs of another man’s body splayed out in much the same manner with pennies over his eyes.
In yet another folder, I find the photographed remains of James McKenzie. According to the enclosed report, this took place in Boston as well. Very similar death, his throat slit and coins over his eyes. He must have been related to Bryan. Perhaps the business went to him after Bryan died. Maybe he stole it from him. With these people, who knows?
Pushing that folder aside, I open the one titled Joaquin Gianni. Unfortunately, I’ve heard of him too. Daddy often referred to him as the Short Shit. The photos of him are slightly different. He’s not on a bed but in a morgue, with several of those little place cards with numbers set at different points on his body. And from the looks of it, he’d been dead for a while before the picture was snapped.
My lips pull back in a “yeesh” as I take in the sight of his bloated, blueish body. There are no gashes or any cuts or wounds. But he’s dead as a doorknob, with what appears to be duct tape over his eyes. After turning the page, I read some of the notes from the coroner that state he died from trauma to the neck. And the tape… That was used to affix coins to his eyes.
I flip open the last folder, this one with the name Sinacore on it. Luca’s brother. This time, I do glance away. While the other two were strangers, faces I’d never seen alive, Tony was another matter. I remember the way he smiled. The way he talked and walked. Even if I didn’t like what he did, I knew him when he was alive. He’s not just a body in a photograph.
He was a person.
After catching my breath, I return my attention to him again. He’s also on a bed, his neck cut open. And pennies over his eyes.
The pennies.
Several notes have been written in what I recognize as Luca’s jagged script. They show the comparison of his brother’s murder to the others. Questions of motive, manner, and possible suspects.
Why the pennies?
Something begins to niggle at the back of my mind. Whispers I heard when I was much younger and my father didn’t realize I was lurking outside his office doors. Or maybe he did but didn’t think I’d register what was being said.
Suddenly, the folder is shut so fast, I’m knocked off my feet from the shock of it.
