Page 159
ADRIANA
Silvia Greco was not what I expected.
She entered the room with a leather folder tucked beneath one arm. Her short hair was streaked with silver, and she wore a dark suit with no jewellery except for a watch. Her expression was hard and watchful, the look of a woman who had spent years standing for what she believed in and encountered many obstacles along the way.
She crossed to the security camera, disconnected it and removed the memory card herself. Only then did she face us. I guess she didn’t trust us any more than we trusted her.
Her gaze moved from Raze to Demitri before settling on Atlas. He stood with his hands in his pockets, polished and composed enough to pass for an ordinary, wealthy businessman.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” Greco admitted. “Your name usually reaches my desk by accident, never by invitation.”
Atlas didn't react outwardly.
“My legitimate businesses have never given your office cause for concern.”
“It’s the businesses no one can prove belong to you that concern me.”
A faint smile touched Atlas’s mouth.
Raze shifted beside the door, turning slightly toward the corridor. The movement was small, but one of Greco’s officers noticed and moved his hand closer to his weapon. Raze looked at him. “If you draw that gun, make sure the first bullet kills me.”
The officer froze.
Greco didn’t turn around as she directed her words at her guard.
“Sit down, Moretti.”
The officer obeyed.
Raze remained standing.
Greco took the chair opposite me and opened her folder. Photographs, bank records and copies of documents from the drive covered the table. “I’ve spent four years investigating these companies. Every time I found someone who could connect them directly to the Coccico cartel, that person changed their story, disappeared or died.”
She turned over the first photograph.
My father stood outside a freight office with two men I didn’t recognize.
The picture had been taken recently. I knew because he wore the navy coat I had bought him last Christmas. His hair was greyer than I remembered, and one hand rested on the roof of a nearby car. For one terrible second, he looked like the father I had known. Then I looked at the men beside him.
“Did you know what your father’s involvement was with the Coccico cartel?” Greco asked.
“Only what he told me.”
“Which was?”
“He managed their financial records.”
“Did he ever mention the San Michele Relief Foundation?”
“No.”
“Bishop Ferretti?”
“No.”
“Did he travel often?”
“He was gone alot.”
