Santo Forcelli, the president of Stella d’Italia hotels, sipped the last of his cappuccino as he read the morning papers in his private office. He found the write-up on the funeral mass and reception to be adequate and made a note to have his secretary send the editor of L’Arena some flowers. All in all, the unfortunate situation with Mando had turned out to be quite positive. Everybody loved a scandal, which brought free publicity, and if the Forcelli clan was seen as grieving the sudden loss of their wayward son, so much the better.
The sound of his secretary over the intercom was unexpected. “Excuse me, signore, but there is a Signor Gabriele de la Torre to see you. He says he made an appointment with you last evening.”
Christ, it’s only nine in the morning, he thought. Anxious little bastard. “All right. Send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
As de la Torre entered his office, Santo made a point not to get up, which any idiot would take as the insult it was meant to be. Unfortunately the man didn’t indicate by either expression or mannerism that he knew or even cared that he was being disrespected. Either de la Torre really was stupid or he’d been in America too long. Santo thought it must be the latter. Americans, in his experience, put very little stock in class distinction; in fact, they generally had no sense of class whatsoever. Daniela’s mother was a perfect example of that.
Santo observed the man’s muscles, which were considerable beneath his shirt and jacket. He was a strong-looking buck; no wonder Daniela had attached herself to him. He grew hard at the image of the two of them having sex and that irritated him. He was glad to be sitting down.
“You did not waste any time,” he said, indicating with a nod that de la Torre should take a seat.
“I have a full schedule today…as I’m sure you do as well,” de la Torre replied, dwarfing the chair he chose to sit in.
Santo eyed the interloper for a long minute before speaking. “Why did you come with Daniela?” he asked. “Are you fucking her?” He watched the man wince at his words. So he has feelings for her. “Does she know you’ve been spying on her for the past year?”
De la Torre stared at him. Santo noticed the man was clenching his jaw. “I don’t know why you’re insulting your niece, and I don’t particularly care. Our business has nothing to do with her.”
“Doesn’t it?” Santo leaned back in his chair and calmly took a cigar out of the custom, engraved humidor that the sultan of Brunei had given him for “services rendered” a few years back. He took his time clipping the end of the cigar, lighting and inhaling it before he spoke again. “‘De la Torre.’ That was a noble name…once upon a time. Perhaps you are trying to resurrect it after what your family obviously did to ruin it.”
Before the buck could react to the insult, Santo continued. “You feel you owe me for your mother’s care, which is why, at my request, you’ve been willing to keep me informed as to my niece’s activities without her knowledge. Now you’ve come to tell me you will no longer do my bidding, clearly because if you don’t already have the woman, you want her, and if she learns you’ve been spying on her, she will no doubt kick you out of her bed. So you aim to alter the terms of our agreement by offering me a financial settlement. Do I have the facts right?”
Santo continued to gaze at de la Torre and was pleased to see that he’d scored a direct hit. The younger man was working hard no doubt to keep himself from reaching over the desk and grabbing Santo by the throat. A pity he doesn’t try it. The stiletto in my top drawer would look stylish jutting out of the bull’s neck.
“I have done nothing since I have known Daniela to cause her any harm. I simply answered the occasional questions of a concerned but far-off relative as to her safety and social status.”
“Bravo,” Santo said, clapping his hands slowly. “I’m sure you have rehearsed that many times. But the fact remains, she doesn’t know, does she?” De la Torre’s silence told Santo what he needed to know. He smiled. “So what may I do for you?”
“I have calculated what it must have cost your family to care for my mother for the years she suffered from her disease,” de la Torre said. “I believe it is roughly two hundred thousand dollars. I can wire that amount to your bank at any time and from that point forward I would like to call it even between our families.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars? Where, may I ask, did a mere policeman get that kind of money? You haven’t gone to the dark side, have you?”
“It’s none of your damn business where the money came from, just that it’s legal.”
“So you’ve scrimped and saved and now you’re going to restore honor to your family’s name by repaying a decades-old debt. It’s admirable. But once you turn over your nest egg to me, what will you have to offer your lady love?” Santo made a show of pondering the ceiling. “Ah, wait. I see. Now that’s she’s an heiress, it won’t matter, will it? You’ll live off her.”
De la Torre stood up and Santo felt a moment of true fear. The man wouldn’t go berserk, would he? He might be so quick that Santo couldn’t get to the knife in time. De la Torre leaned his hands on Santo’s desk in a gesture designed to intimidate.
“I’ve told you before,” he said carefully, as if he too feared losing control. “This has nothing to do with Daniela. Simply tell me where to send the money and I will send it. Then we will never have to speak again.”
Santo rose slowly, in part to show he wasn’t cowed by the younger man, and in part to move closer to the door in case de la Torre was stupid enough to attack him. “Much as I would love to take your money, my own honor dictates that I cannot,” he said. “I made an agreement with your aunt many years ago and she has taken care of the debt. If you feel the need to compensate anyone, compensate her.”
“I don’t understand,” de la Torre said, straightening to his full height. “How could she have paid you so much money on a manager’s salary?”
“Money isn’t…everything,” Santo replied as he walked around his desk toward his office door. “I thank you for your, shall we say, “reporting” services, but now that Daniela is back with the family I will have no more need of them…and she will have no more need of you. Your debt having been discharged, I’ll expect you to leave La Tana as soon as possible.”
The brute looked him in the eye. “With all due respect, the decision as to when I leave is up to Dani, not to you.”
“We will see about that,” Santo murmured. He held the door open. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have much more pressing matters to attend to.” He met de la Torre’s glare with a bored expression of his own. The young man brushed past him, and as he passed Cristina’s desk, Santo called out, “Signor de la Torre?” When he turned, Santo said, “What were you, ten or so when you left your mother? It’s a pity you never saw her alive again. But rest assured, the only real suffering she endured was the loss of her little boy.”
Sometimes one doesn’t need an actual knife to inflict a mortal wound. A grim smile on his face, Santo returned to his desk, agitation still simmering throughout his body. De la Torre was nothing. Nothing. He drew on his cigar and exhaled, as if to rid himself of the nuisance.
He’d been truthful about having more important issues to deal with. His very silent “partners,” owners of the Azure Consortium, were beginning to pressure him, but not for anything that hadn’t already been discussed within the family. For years his parents had argued about extending the Stella d’Italia hotel brand. His father was all for it, but his mother refused to leverage the company. Santo realized early on that he’d have to marginalize her to run the operation his way. Fortunately his own marriage to Ornella Orfeo, pathetic though it was, had provided enough capital to expand and upgrade their properties, elevating the Stella d’Italia brand to the elite cadre of European hoteliers.
But now, he agreed, it was time to take their operation to the next level. The consortium had purchased the ailing hotel chain Alberghi Paradisi specifically to resell it to Stella d’Italia. The acquisition would mean holding debt, to be sure, but the profit potential was considerable, and all it took was fifty-one percent of the family vote to approve the sale. His mother’s forty-nine percent couldn’t be counted on, damn her, but that had never mattered before, because in his will, Santo’s father had given each of his sons seventeen percent. With Mando and Aldo each voting their shares with him, their combined votes had always carried the day…
…until Mando balked. The question was, why? Their last conversation had been cryptic. Mando implied he knew something wasn’t right with the company, but gave no details. Sources told Santo that his brother was screwing the human resources director of their Milano property; maybe she had his ear. No matter, he’d already put Dante on her trail. He would ferret her out and see what, if anything, she knew.
Santo stubbed out his cigar. He had few regrets in life. He had not only taken care of his extended family, but seen to it that they all prospered. For years, his brothers had understood he put the family’s interests first and they had willingly gone along with his wishes. But telling his shadow partners about Mando’s newfound obstinacy had been a mistake. Without his knowledge they’d taken action, thinking they would solve his problem. But they had only changed the nature of it. Now that Mando was gone, Daniela was the linchpin. For that reason, only one path stood out in stark relief: Daniela had come home and once more it was time for her to follow the course he would lay out for her. But she was no longer a shy, respectful teenager, which meant his strategy would have to change. He pushed his intercom button once again.
“Cristina, I would like you to send a message to my niece Daniela Dunn and tell her I would like to take her to lunch today. Tell her I will have my driver pick her up at La Tana at twelve thirty. And tell Signora Petrovic that our lunch meeting will have to wait. When you have finished with that, please come into my office. I have need of you before my conference call at ten.”
“Yes, Signor Forcelli.”
While he waited for his secretary, Santo continued to drum his fingers on his desktop. The image of the muscle-bound policeman who seemed to have forgotten his place came to mind again. Images of Daniela and the stud in bed once again intruded, and lust cohabited with fury. At that moment the cell phone in his desk vibrated. He reached into the drawer, pulled it out and answered it.
“You saved me a call,” he said.
I could kill him with my bare hands, Gabe thought on his way out of the executive suite. The tension he felt from having to keep from decking Santo had caused his shoulders to knot considerably and he needed to punch something to loosen them up; too bad the prick’s face wasn’t available. Until today he’d had only a passing acquaintance with the Forcelli patriarch. As a young boy, he’d always considered Santo the amorphous “boss man.” In more recent times, during the few telephone calls regarding Dani, he’d sensed the older man’s condescension. But in person Forcelli had shown utter contempt toward Gabe and what was obviously a painful subject, the death of Gabe’s mother. But more than anything, the man had seemed proprietary toward Dani, as if she were way too good for Gabe. Maybe she was, but that was for her to decide, not her uncle. God, what an asshole.
After checking his watch, he hailed a taxi outside the corporate headquarters adjacent to the company’s downtown hotel. He had enough time for a run at La Tana before heading to Giulio’s in the nearby village of Mizzole to meet the mystery lady. He debated whether or not to tell Dani where he was going. The note had said “Tell no one.” Did that mean not even Dani? That seemed ridiculous, but then, why hadn’t she given the note to Dani to begin with? He decided to take this first step solo, just in case it didn’t smell right. He could always bring her up to speed later.
She was still in their suite when he returned. Dressed in a pretty, peachy colored summer sweater and cream-colored slacks, she looked like a two-toned Popsicle and he wanted to lick her from top to bottom. It helped that she had slept peacefully the night before; her natural energy seemed to be back.
“I missed you this morning,” she said. “Did you go for a run?”
“Uh, no, I’m going now. What’s on your agenda today?”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to speak to you about. I got a call from Uncle Santo’s secretary telling me he wants to take me to lunch today. I…I was wondering if you would like to come with me.”
Gabe hesitated. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was deal with Santo again, but any other time he’d gladly suck it up to support Dani. She obviously didn’t like the man. Still, he couldn’t stand up the mystery woman—what she had to say was too important. “Uh, well, I’d like to, but…but I’m going to see Marco for lunch.”
Dani stared at him for several moments, as if evaluating him. “Really?” she asked.
“Um, yeah. I just spoke with him a few minutes ago.”
“I see. Well, then the man calling himself Marco who just called saying he’d like to invite us to dinner tomorrow night because he’s busy with work today must be a different Marco.” She cocked her head, waiting.
He sighed, running his hand through his hair. Busted. “I…uh…you remember that note last night…”
The expression that crossed Dani’s face showed surprise, then hurt, and finally a strange vindication, as if he’d proven her right about his lack of character all along. “Ah.” She nodded and turned to head back to her bedroom. “Well, enjoy yourself.”
“Wait,” Gabe said, starting toward her. “I don’t think you—”
Dani waved him away. “Really, I mean it. You’re on vacation, you shouldn’t be babysitting me.”
Gabe stared at the door that had effectively been shut in his face. He considered his options. He could tell her the truth and really freak her out, or he could mislead her for a little while longer until he found out more information. He decided on the latter course, although he felt like a shithead about it. No matter what, he was going to have to engage in some serious damage repair when he got back.
By mid-afternoon Gabe had just finished his second glass of birra—sadly, not nearly cold enough to combat the sticky heat that caused him to regret not wearing running shorts. After more than an hour, the mystery lady still hadn’t shown up. He checked the piece of paper she’d given him yet again. Yes, he was at the right place, and yes he’d been there since one p.m. He looked around. This time of day the trattoria was nearly deserted; in fact, the only other customer at an outdoor table was a beefy man wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap with foreign lettering on it, playing some sort of game on his cell phone. Either that or he was writing a novel at breakneck speed. At any rate, the guy had been tapping away since shortly after Gabe sat down.
Maybe I’ve been pranked, Gabe thought. Or maybe Santo set this up to make sure I wouldn’t show up with Dani for lunch. No, that didn’t make sense. The mystery woman had come up to them just as Santo left them at the reception. Besides, Dani had only learned about the lunch invitation this morning; how would Santo know if she was going to show or not?
He called the waiter to get his tab and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. After pulling out some euros he looked up to see a woman approaching him. She was wearing a large floppy hat and sun glasses, but he could tell it was the same woman from the memorial reception.
“Signor Gabriele de la Torre?” she asked softly.
Gabe put the money on the table and spoke just as softly. “How do you know my name?”
“You were mentioned as Signorina Dunn’s escort for the funeral. It was in L’Arena, the newspaper.” The woman looked around furtively and lowered her voice even further. “You read my note.”
“Obviously. Listen, signora, I don’t know what you—”
“Scusi, will you come with me? Per favore? I do not have very much time.”
Glancing over, he saw the guy with the cell phone stand up as well. Gabe accompanied the mystery lady down the alley, back toward the main street of the neighborhood. The phone guy followed them.
Gabe’s sixth sense kicked in. At the corner, the woman turned right and continued walking briskly. Halfway down the block Gabe gently took her by the arm to stop her in front of a book shop. She looked up at him and started to tug, so he tightened his grip.
“Bear with me,” he said quietly. And more loudly, in Italian, “You’re always in a hurry, darling. I need to get a book for Rafael.” He paused and appeared to be perusing the books displayed in the window. Phone guy walked by, but stopped two storefronts down. Gabe glanced at him; he looked innocuous enough, once more checking his cellphone and tapping. Gabe waited a minute, then took the lady’s arm and turned her in the opposite direction. “Dammit, I forgot something at the café,” he said in a loud voice.
“What’s—”
Gabe leaned down as if to kiss her on the neck. “Shhh. Play along,” he whispered. They continued walking back the way they came.
Phone guy followed.
Shit.
Out of habit Gabe felt for his shoulder holster, which of course he’d left back in California. He picked up the pace, and when the woman began to turn around he squeezed her arm again to keep her facing forward. “How well do you know Mizzole?” he asked.
“I grew up here.” Her voice was strained.
“Then get us lost,” he said.
The woman’s eyebrows shot up and panic swept over her face, but self-preservation must have quickly taken over because she nodded, took Gabe’s hand and immediately crossed the street, heading toward a small passage between two larger buildings off the village square. Gabe glanced back to see phone guy crossing the street, heading their way, still on his cell phone. Probably calling in reinforcements, Gabe thought, once more lamenting his lack of weapon. This woman better know what she’s doing.
They were jogging now; thank God she was wearing sensible shoes. She took them through the alley and onto another street before ducking into a panetteria. The yeasty smell of the bread reminded Gabe of Dani’s freshly baked focaccia back home. It crossed his mind how cruel it was to take this particular escape route when he couldn’t stop to appreciate it or buy a loaf. He had no idea what the woman was up to.
“Look, I know a local cop,” he said. “Where’s the nearest precinct office?”
“No!” the woman cried. “My way is better.” She waved hello to the woman behind the counter and headed to the back of the shop. With his free hand Gabe put his finger to his lips and the clerk smiled indulgently. They entered the kitchen where a middle-aged man was cleaning off a giant dough hook. “Ciao Rudi,” the mystery lady said. “Non ci ha mai visto.” Rudi grinned and waved his hand. “Sì. Sì.”
They headed out the back door and kept running, down backstreets, through private gardens, along a park path, under a stone archway. The woman showed no signs of slowing down; she seemed to be running on adrenaline. Gabe glanced behind and to either side. No sign of phone guy. They’d probably lost him several blocks back. He tugged on the woman’s arm to stop her.
“Good job,” he said. “Now will you please tell me what the hell is going on?”
“I will, but follow me, per favore. It’s not far now.”
It seemed she really did know where she was going. They headed down several more streets until they came to a non-descript door. She knocked, looking both ways as she did so.
Ironically, Gabe felt much less comfortable leaving the street. “Look, lady, if this is some kind of scam—”
The woman stopped and peered up at him, taking off her sunglasses to look at him directly. Her eyes were dark and alert. “No scam, signore, I assure you. Trust me, please.” Her tone was impatient, as if she were a teacher and he an unruly little boy who had pushed her buttons one too many times. Gabe frowned at the all-too familiar memory.
After a moment the door opened and an older, white-haired woman beckoned them in. He followed the younger woman through a small, sparsely furnished house that was centered, like many Italian homes, around an interior courtyard. She led the way outside, motioning to a rickety iron table set with two chairs.
“Please. Sit. Mamma, due espresso, per favore?” She sat down and took off her hat. Without the disguise she was an attractive brunette who looked to be in her early to mid-forties.
“You may speak in Italian, signora,” Gabe said. “Look, I have no clue who we were running from just now. But you seem to. What’s this all about?”
“My name is Carla Rinaldi,” she said. “Until very recently I was the human resources director at the Stella d’Italia Milano.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a cigarette. “Do you mind? I am a little nervous these days.” She chuckled weakly. Gabe shook his head and she proceeded to light up, her hands shaking slightly in the process.
“Why aren’t you working there anymore? Were you let go?”
Carla started to speak, but her mother interrupted, bringing a tray with the two espressos and a plate of biscotti. “Thank you, Mama.” She took a sip of the rich coffee. It seemed to calm her down. After several moments she began to speak.
“Signor de la Torre, as soon as I found out Mando had been killed, I left my job and my apartment. Everything. In fact, I am scheduled to take a train to Rome in two hours. From there I plan to take a flight…well, away.”
“What do you mean, Mando was killed? From everything I’ve been told, he took his powerboat joyriding in the middle of the night, fell out, and drowned.”
Carla nodded. “Yes, I know that’s the report, but it isn’t the truth. You see…I was with Mando that night. In Siracusa.”
“Were you and he seeing each other?”
The woman bestowed a ghost of a smile. “You mean, was I his mistress?”
Gabe shrugged. “Your word, not mine.”
“I suppose the world would see it that way,” she admitted. “Legally he was still married to Daniela’s mother. But our relationship was so much more than that. I loved him very much.”
Gabe felt sorry for the woman; she obviously cared for the guy, but she couldn’t openly express her grief as a lover would. Still, the relationship wasn’t really the point.
“If you were with him, why did he take off in his boat? Did you have a fight?”
“No, nothing like that. In fact, Mando was ill that night. He suffered from migraines, and he could tell when one was coming on. Something about the light—he became very sensitive to it, so he knew what to expect. He was scheduled to race in a qualifying heat the next day, and he didn’t want to be incapacitated, so he left after we had dinner and returned to his room to take the prescription medication he had brought with him. The medication made him drowsy, which he liked, because he knew the only way to improve his condition was to sleep. There is no way he would have taken the medication and then gone out on his boat.”
“You weren’t staying in the same room?”
Carla blushed at that. “No. Mando and I…We began as casual business colleagues. He would occasionally attend hotel promotional events and over time our friendship grew into something very strong. He was a public figure, and we—I—did not want the world to intrude on our privacy. Our relationship was…beautiful. And we took precautions to make sure it was not destroyed by the paparazzi. Do you understand?”
“I do. So you made an early night of it. Had you been drinking? Maybe he—”
“No. Absolutely not. Mando always said that alcohol inflamed his head even more and he never drank when he knew he was going to take the medication.”
Gabe reached for his ever-present notepad and pencil. Carla watched him, her hands repeatedly flicking the cigarette. “Back in the States I’m a police detective,” he said. “Did you know that?”
Carla shook her head. “The paper said you were in law enforcement, but it did not say in which capacity. I have heard that police in America are not as susceptible to corruption as they are in Italy.”
“That’s debatable,” Gabe said drily. “But don’t worry, I’m only taking notes to keep track of the timeline. So you parted company when?”
“I would say around ten fifteen or ten thirty p.m. We said our good nights. His room was four doors down from mine. I watched him enter his room. He…he blew me a kiss.” Carla’s voice broke; Gabe reached for his usual handkerchief and offered it to her.
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
“So he enters his room around ten thirty. Did you hear any noises after that?’
Carla shook her head. “Not until, I don’t know, around eleven or eleven-fifteen, I heard some men talking while they walked down the hall. They were not speaking Italian, although one of them spoke whatever language it was with an Italian-sounding accent. It was…it sounded Eastern European, but I’m not sure which country. One of them sounded as if he were breathing hard. I wonder—if I had opened the door, would I have seen that man carrying Mando? Could I have done something to save him?”
“Signora Rinaldi, you should thank your lucky stars you didn’t open that door. If you had, and if what you surmise is true, you might not be talking to me today.”
“I believe you are right. But as you can see, I am still in danger…for the same reason that Mando was killed.”
“Okay, let’s cut to the chase. You think Mando was murdered. Why?”
Carla took a moment before answering. Gabe could tell she was afraid to share what she knew.
“I’m on your side, remember,” he said softly.
Carla paused, then nodded. “Stella d’Italia hotels cater to a very exclusive clientele, primarily businessmen. Each property is required to employ as many guest-exposure workers as possible, including housekeeping attendants, from eastern or northern Europe.” She smiled ruefully. “Gentlemen really do prefer blonds, Signor de la Torre.”
“I must be the exception that proves the rule,” Gabe said. “Please go on.”
“Many of the maids who come to us are from rural areas of Eastern European countries, such as Slovenia, Romania, and the Ukraine. These young women, most of whom are very attractive, are quite innocent and unused to city life and its many dangers. I was alerted by our director of housekeeping that her staffing levels had been erratic the last several months and she was irritated because it was beginning to require more training hours than usual and was affecting employee morale.”
“What was going on?”
“She had been sent a number of temporary housekeeping personnel from other Stella d’Italia properties to help with a large booking, but within a few weeks, two of them had left the company. Apparently this had happened several times before, whenever temporary staff were brought in. She assumed one of our competitors was offering a better employment package, so she finally brought the situation to my attention. I mentioned it in passing to our general manager and said I would be looking into it. He got back to me a few days later and told me, quite emphatically, not to pursue the matter. He said the corporate office had assured him it was part of the normal ebb and flow for that department.”
“Something tells me that didn’t sit right with you.”
Carla smiled for the first time since he’d met her. “You are right. I did not bring it up again with either my director of housekeeping or my general manager, but in my spare moments I quietly created a spreadsheet showing turnover trends over time.”
“So, was the competition stealing your best workers?”
“I honestly wish it were the case, but no. I selected a handful of names and talked with my counterparts at other Milano properties. The women had not joined any other hotel staff. I then traced the lost employees back to the Stella d’Italia property they had come from and talked discreetly with their home supervisors. Most of the temporary employees had indeed returned to their original positions, but none of the employees I was trying to locate had done so. Some of the supervisors, just like my own director of housekeeping, were annoyed because they too thought they had lost good workers to a better employment situation.”
“Did you talk to anyone else about what might have happened to them?”
“No, I kept it to myself. I did not know what the answer was, only that those above me did not want me to find it.”
Gabe nodded. “But you kept digging.”
Carla shrugged. “Yes, certainly. I tried to track some of them down from their last known residence in Milan, but each one had left her living situation without giving a forwarding address. Yet there were no complaints to the local authorities, which is odd, except that they hadn’t been in Milan for very long, so I suppose they wouldn’t know too many people who would miss them. I find the situation quite perplexing.”
“Maybe they decided to leave the hotel business altogether. Isn’t there a lot of turnover at that level, anyway? Maybe as women got to know Milan, they decided they preferred it to the last place they worked, and found not only new positions, but better living situations.”
“Yes, that does happen frequently, but in those cases there is almost always a forwarding address because many of these young women receive packages and letters from home. And do you know what I found most disturbing of all?”
“Tell me.”
“The pattern repeated itself at different hotels. For example, the director of housekeeping at the Stella d’Italia Firenze would receive a request to provide specific staff members to work temporarily at another Stella d’Italia property. A few weeks later some of those workers would return, but some would not. At other times, the director would receive extra temporary employees from various properties, usually in advance of a large booking—a conference, for instance—and a few of those temporary workers would leave their jobs.”
“Who was making these requests?”
“Sometimes they were made from one hotel director to another, but sometimes they came down the chain of command from the corporate office. It did not happen that often to any one hotel, so no one thought to report it.” Carla smiled briefly. “It so happens that my director of housekeeping is a particularly vocal woman.”
Gabe leaned back in the wrought iron chair and took a sip of coffee. “You’re saying you think women are somehow being kidnapped from the Stella d’Italia Milano?
Carla stubbed out her cigarette and reached into her purse. She took out a stack of spreadsheets which she placed on the table in front of Gabe. “I’m saying, Signor de la Torre, that I think it is happening at virtually all the Stella d’Italia hotels. I told Mando what I had discovered, and I believe he was murdered because he was about to expose the operation. Let me show you what I mean.”