Page 54 of The Don’s Omega

“Tomaso Lucchese.”

His fingers stop above the keyboard.

“Tomaso who?” he repeats, eyes flickering.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know who he is. He runs a chain of dry cleaners. He’s Valentina Lucchese’s nephew.”

“Oh, that Tomaso.” He gives a nervous laugh.

“I need you to find a payment that was made recently. Twenty grand.”

Dario glances at the closed door. “How recently?”

“The last week.”

He nods several times and begins typing. His hands shake badly enough that he enters the password wrong on the first few attempts. He swears under his breath and glances up several times. “If… if you want, Mr. Foschini, I can look into this and… and get back to you.”

“I’ll wait.” As I speak, I pull on my gloves. A tremor goes through him and I almost laugh. I have no intention of hurting him unless he lies or stonewalls me. But he doesn’t know that.

For the next hour, Dario searches and I scroll on my phone.

His mouse clicks furiously as he scans accounts, traces transfers, mutters strings of numbers beneath his breath. Every few minutes he wipes his forehead with a green checkered handkerchief.

At one point, the office phone rings twice and then his cell. He glances at his mobile and then at me. “It… it’s my wife. She’s probably wondering where I am.”

I shrug. “You can take her call if you want. But you can’t leave until you finish the job, Dario. Just tell her you’re with a very important client.”

He swallows hard. “It’s probably best if I just ignore her call.”

“Suit yourself.”

He picks up his phone and puts it on silent, then goes back to digging through files. Eventually, he straightens, looking relieved. “I found something.”

I lean forward. “Yeah?”

He turns the monitor toward me and points to a line buried among dozens of transfers. “There’s a payment of twenty thousand exactly. Four days ago.” He licks his lips. “It was routed through one of Tomaso’s shell companies, then moved twice before reaching this person’s account.”

“Who owns the account?”

“Not sure.” His voice cracks and he clears his throat. “The recipient’s name doesn’t connect to anyone I recognize. Odds are it’s an alias. Take a look.” He writes it on a pad and slides it across the desk.

The name might mean nothing to Dario but it means plenty to me.

It’s an alias used by a broker who connects families with outside muscle. Killers who can be hired without bringing another syndicate directly into the arrangement. It’s not as useful as a line item marked Renzo Vitale, Murder Services LLC, but it’s close enough.

It’s a damning trail. Dario traced twenty thousand dollars, paid four days ago through Tomaso’s dry cleaning chain. A chain that just happens to be run by Valentina’s nephew. It’s exactly what Renzo described, down to the dollar, connecting the date and the name Lucchese.

There are now three independent threads. Bruna confirming the meetings with Renzo from the photo Carlo showed him. The financial trail matching the amount of Renzo’s payment precisely. And Renzo’s confession from his own lips.

It’s enough. More than enough.

“Print everything.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Foschini.” Dario pushes a few keys on his computer, and the printer that sits beside the filing cabinets grinds into action. It spits out page after page, and Dario gathers them and places them into a folder.

“Did you need anything else?” he asks politely.

“No. For now, that’ll do.”