Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
If only it were that easy.
CHAPTER 8
SOFIA
As soon as Frankie pulls away, I leave my fake address. The doorman’s looking at me strangely, but luckily there are so many people who live in the building that he can’t immediately write me off as a trespasser.
I hurry down the street, eager to get to my apartment to write everything down. I barge through the door, throwing my purse onto the kitchen counter. My laptop is right where I left it, in a bag by the table. I pull it out, open it up, and type.
I stay glued to the computer for more than an hour, trying to remember every detail of my conversation with Frankie. He was more tight-lipped than I expected. I thought for sure I could manage to get him drunk. If I had just shown enough leg, if I had leaned into the conversation, I should have been able to get him to say something.
But mostly, he remained mute about his family’s affairs. I’m surprised he slipped up and admitted his father is a billionaire. At the time, I got very excited, thinking I was going to have a whole wealth of information to sort through. But now that I’ve gotten it down on paper, I can see that there isn’t a lot to work with.
When I’m done, I take a shower and go to bed. In the morning, I drive back to the office to fill Mr. Harlan in on what happened.
“Did he say anything about the legitimate businesses that his father is involved in?” Mr. Harlan asks.
“No,” I admit.
“Did he say anything about their conflict with the Andretti family?” Mr. Harlan continues.
“No,” I reply.
“What about his stepmother?” Mr. Harlan asks. “We know she has a complicated past.”
“No,” I repeat myself. “He didn’t say much about his family at all.”
“All right,” Mr. Harlan says, looking away. “So, where are we?”
“Back at square one,” I complain.
I leave his office and go back to my cubicle. This thing with Frankie isn’t getting me anywhere. I was serious when I said we were back to square one. I need to review some of my notes and see if there are any new leads to follow up on.
Something Frankie said at dinner nags at me. I think he mentioned real Italian cooking. Maybe that means he has some experience in the restaurant business. I start looking in the small business listings for the area. There are tons of names, and no indication that any of them are owned by the Corellos.
I spend the entire day chasing my tail, only to discover a set of financial filings that might hold a clue. But it’s late. I drive home and help myself to a beer. Lonely nights like this make me think about Danny. He should be the one following up on this story, not me. He was the real journalist in the family.
It takes me three more days to uncover a single business that might be owned by Francisco Corello. It’s a restaurant, just like I thought. I walk into Mr. Harlan’s office triumphant, carrying a slip of paper over my head.
“You found something?” Mr. Harlan asks.
“Maybe,” I admit. “It’s a long shot, but I’d like to see where it leads.”
“Okay,” he agrees. “What do you need?”
“I’d like a photographer,” I say. “Someone who can take shots from a distance.”
“I know just the guy,” Mr. Harlan answers. “Give me a minute.”
I step outside and wait for him to make the call. After a moment, he waves me back in.
“Do you remember Mario Borsari?” My boss asks.
I think back. “Is he a freelancer?”
“Yes,” Mr. Harlan replies. “And he’s good. Here’s his number. He’s waiting for your call.”
I take the slip of paper from my boss’s hand and smile. “Thanks.”
“Be safe,” Mr. Harlan warns.
“Always,” I promise.
I walk back to my desk to call Mario from a landline. This is work, so I might as well call him from a work number.
“Hello?” Mario answers on the third ring.
“Hello, Mario?” I ask.
“Yes,” he confirms.
“This is Sofia Agosto. I work for the paper. I was wondering if you’re free to work on a story with me?” I hold my breath, hoping he’ll say yes.
“It’s been a while since I’ve done any investigative work,” he says. “Now I mostly do weddings and graduation photos.”
“It’s really important,” I say urgently. “You’ll be helping to bring down a major crime family.”
“I’m in,” he responds quickly. “When do you need me?”
“Can you meet me at Central Bites? It’s a restaurant over on Third Street,” I answer.
“Sure thing,” he says.
We hang up after working out some of the logistics. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I have a hunch that I’ll recognize it when I see it. I just want someone there who can document the comings and goings of various restaurant patrons, and who can back me up in a pinch.