I looked down.
The picture was old.
Not ancient.
Maybe fifteen years.
Four men stood beside a black sedan outside a warehouse.
Two of them I recognized immediately.
Vincent Russo.
And me.
I looked younger.
Twenty.
Maybe twenty-one.
Lean.
Cold-eyed.
Standing beside the car with my arms crossed.
The third man had been one of my father’s drivers.
The fourth—
I lifted the photograph.
Maria studied my expression.
The fourth man looked younger than the rest.
Dark hair.
Defined jaw.
A faint smile suggesting he hadn’t yet learned to be cautious around cameras.
Something about him felt familiar.
Not exactly his face.
The shape around his eyes.
“Gabriel,” Maria said.
I looked toward her.
“That’s Sofia’s father.”
I studied the photograph again.
I searched through my memory.
Nothing surfaced.
“I don’t remember him.”
“I believe you.”
“You said he worked for Hale Distribution.”
“Years afterward.”
“What was he doing with Vincent?”
“I don’t know.”
“And with me?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“When was this taken?”
“Gabriel wrote the date on the back.”
I flipped it over.
October 14.
Fourteen years earlier.
Underneath the date were three words.
Pier 17. Midnight.
I read them twice.
Maria spoke softly.
“When I discovered that photograph, I began asking questions.”
“Who?”
“People Gabriel once knew.”
“That was risky.”
“I wasn’t asking about your business.”
“You were asking about Vincent Russo.”
Her expression shifted.
Slightly.
But enough.
So she recognized the name.
“How much do you know about Vincent?” I asked.
“Less than you imagine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She lowered herself into the chair across from me.
Perhaps because remaining on her feet had become too difficult.
“Gabriel hated him.”
I stayed silent.
“He never explained why. I only heard that name twice throughout our marriage.”
“When?”
“The first time, we had just changed apartments. I found an old phone inside a box. Gabriel took it from me so quickly that I knew something was wrong.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me the phone belonged to somebody named Vincent.”
“And the second time?”
“The night before Gabriel died.”
The room suddenly seemed smaller.
“What did he say?”
Maria’s fingers tightened around the edge of the chair.
“He arrived home late. Sofia was already sleeping. He hardly touched his dinner.”
Her eyes drifted toward the rain-covered window.
“I asked what was bothering him. He said, ‘Vincent found me.’”
