Chapter Fifteen

Justine

THIS TIME WHEN Sofia comes over for dinner, I cook.

Flushing has some of the best takeout in the city, but I want to settle into this apartment, and the sterility of untouched kitchenware makes the entire place feel like a showroom. She confessed to a distinct lack of spice tolerance, so I bought ingredients for suànní báiròufrom the market down the street. It comes deluged in garlic, which feels Italian enough for her tastes, and I can toss the diced chilies on top of my own bowl at the end.

The pork is already boiling away in broth, kicking the tang of vinegar and ginger into the air, and I’ve just finished chopping the last of the garnish when Sofia lets herself in. She told me she copied the realtor’s key out of habit, but offered to throw it in the Hudson if I minded her having access. I said to keep it. Campbell’s apartment used to be her emergency stop between work and home, and she’s already risked enough by sneaking evidence out of there.

After locking the door—she taps the bolt twice, like I do—Sofia says, “Well, I’ve checked every time before coming here, and the feds don’t seem to be watching this place. They cut your leash after you left the hotel.”

I divide chopped scallions and cilantro into their own little dishes before turning around to wash my hands. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“It means they think you’re irrelevant, which is great.” She sweeps into the kitchen behind me, peering over the pot on the stove. “Because Frank Amato is corrupt as all hell.”

Scrubbing the peppercorn oil out from under my nails always takes so long, sticking viscous and red. “Corrupt how?”

“Food first. I don’t want to spoil your cooking.” Sofia sniffs the air. “What is this anyway?”

“Garlic pork. No spice, I promise. It might numb your tongue a little.”

Amusement quirks the edge of her mouth. “My taste buds are terribly pedestrian. Butter and oil upbringing, you know.”

She helps set the table, then tosses her coat over the one empty chair before taking a seat on the other side. I can’t help but watch as Sofia takes her first bite; a flicker of surprise passes through celadon eyes before they close, lips pursed to savor, and she mutters: “Fuck, that’s good. I’ve been living off espresso and pasticcini out of my desk drawer for days.”

“There’s plenty for seconds,” I say, pride a warm glow in my chest before I start to dig in. “Have you talked to Campbell?”

“Yeah. That’s how I found out about Amato’s cuckoo trick,” Sofia says around an overly large bite. “They really have a knack for chasing a single drop of blood to its source. Would scare the hell out of me if we weren’t on the same side.”

She’s lost me. “Cuckoo?”

Sofia looks up from her bowl to meet my eyes. “He’s the bastard son of Miceli La Rosa.”

“What?” Shock is a blade, cutting the question right out of me. “Are you serious?”

“Turns out Miceli’s first wife cheated on him. I found a note about it in one of my dad’s old journals. The relevant details match—Amato’s birth date, eye color, mother’s name. He’s framing Campbell to cover his tracks.”

“Amato wanted Miceli dead.” I put my chopsticks down with a hard click. Sofia was right; I should have waited to ask. My appetite has up and fled. “But he negotiated the contract through Stefano Galici? Why?”

“That’s what I wanted to know. How they even met, considering Amato and his mother were kicked to the curb a couple months after he was born.” Sofia refills her bowl with an endearing sort of greed, continuing to talk: “Amato had a trespassing arrest when he was sixteen. I looked into it. Guess whose place he broke into?”

I have to assume. “La Rosa’s?”

“No.” Her eyes sharpen. “Mickey Galici’s. But Mickey, generous guy that he is, decided to drop the charges for some reason. Galici and company were close to the La Rosa clan when I was a kid, but relations soured quick. Amato wouldn’t have known that since his mother was forced out of the loop.”

Amato was looking for his birthright. “Did he keep in contact with Mickey after that?”

“He must have. Mickey wasn’t a diary kind of guy, but that’s the only way I can explain why Stefano would trust a fed. To him, Amato is the boy his dead brother took under his wing. Not family, but close.”

“That’s…almost sentimental,” I admit.

“Mickey never married. Didn’t seem to screw around much either, although I’d rather eat a shotgun than find out the details there. Amato must have projected a lifetime’s worth of daddy issues onto the Galicis’ personal hitman.”

My mouth goes dry. “And then Campbell murdered Mickey.”

This is more than personal—it’s a full cycle of revenge come to bear. Amato took advantage of Stefano’s hatred toward La Rosa and grief over Mickey’s death to hold Campbell accountable for both. Years in the making, served cold as ice.

“But Stefano didn’t know Giovanna was going to die, or that the house would burn down?” I ask, reluctantly putting the pieces together.

“He never would have approved,” Sofia admits. “But Amato needed La Rosa’s journals burned to ash and cover for Giovanna’s death. As far as he knew, the only record left of his mother’s affair was in that office. Good thing my father loved to get in everyone’s business.”

Tension twists around my spine like a coil of wire. “And you’re sure?”

“I wasn’t until I had Enrico look into Amato’s past cases.” Sofia gestures to the shelf where I’ve been keeping Stefano’s pictures. “They match, Justine. He was consulting on federal cases in every city where they were taken, using his job as an excuse to shadow Campbell. And it explains why the photos were limited to the States. The FBI wasn’t going to ship Amato to France or Chile on their dime.”

“And why he took them outside or in public,” I murmur, cursing myself for not putting it together before. “Amato was building a case, but he didn’t have warrants yet. He needed evidence that couldn’t be thrown out.”

“No crime against shooting photos outside of private property,” Sofia notes wryly. “He had a description of Mickey’s killer from Stefano and the full power of the Bureau’s budget backing him. Finding Campbell was just a matter of time.”

And Amato must spend plenty of time in New York keeping up appearances with the Galici family. Cesare admitted to having a friend in the FBI; he wasn’t boasting, and he isn’t a rat—he’s Amato’s stalking horse.

“If you have proof, isn’t this over?” I ask. “The man in charge of Campbell’s case is colluding with the Mafia to put them away for a murder they didn’t commit.”

“They did kill La Rosa, is the problem.” Sofia sips the last of the broth out of her bowl; her stomach must be lined with lead to stay so steady through this. “And Amato knows it. I could bring everything I have to the judge and get these charges thrown out for about ten minutes before he turns state’s evidence and sells out Campbell to save himself.”

Fuck. “What if Campbell makes a deal first?”

Her frown says everything. “We’re still talking ten, fifteen years in prison. Most first-degree felonies have sentencing minimums once they’re kicked to the federal level.”

Ten years. I’d wait for them—God, of course I’d wait—but the idea of Amato getting away with this unscathed lights a spark of rage in the darkest part of my heart, hungry for oxygen, any excuse to explode.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“I have to focus on the frame. If I can prove Campbell was set up without pointing the finger at Amato, and we snare a not guilty verdict, then we’re free to go after him. Double jeopardy would apply.”

There’s something she isn’t saying. When Sofia is confident, I can feel it like a wall of stone, strong enough to lean against. “But?”

She bites the edge of her lip. “A man who would spend this long to get his revenge isn’t going to be stopped by a single court case. He knows Campbell has committed other murders, and if he finds enough evidence for even one of them, we’re right back where we started.”

“Then what do we do?”

Her expression shutters, locked tight as a vault. “Legally, I can’t give you advice here.”

“Sofia,” I press, “we’re long past that.”

“I’m defending Campbell because I know they’re innocent of the particular crimes they’ve been arraigned for,” she says, every word clipped and careful. “That’s different than telling one of my clients to commit a felony. Or implying said felony would solve a legal problem. It strips the privilege between us. I won’t be able to protect you.”

“You don’t have to tell me to do anything. Just lay out the facts.”

She holds her silence for a solid minute, worrying her lipstick to a thin streak. “As long as Frank Amato is alive, I can’t guarantee Campbell won’t end up convicted, one way or another. Even if he loses his job and his reputation, the FBI has every reason in the world to pursue any murder they can pin on Campbell and save face. You can’t act against Amato because you’re presently a witness in this case and can be compelled to testify against Campbell at any time. If you refuse, then you’ll face charges too.”

The answer has been in front of me the entire time, but I know why I didn’t see the solution before. A decade of pain kills off so many dreams that bring other people joy and complete their lives. Of course Sofia would never say anything. Campbell wouldn’t dream of it.

But I’m ready.

“Fixing the second part is easy.”

Her eyes blow wide before she catches herself. “I can’t suggest that either.”

“Legally?” I ask.

“Legally, ethically.” Sofia pauses in consternation, wary as Persephone counting pomegranate seeds on her tongue. “Also emotionally, if I’m being honest. Even for me, it feels wrong to presume.”

“What would I need?”

She hesitates again; I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so off-kilter. “Justine.”

“Tell me.” I’m not afraid. Ten tons of weight has just fallen off my shoulders. “Now.”

Under the weight of my expectations, Sofia crumbles like talc.

“Your birth certificate and ID. I have Campbell’s already. They had me put their original documents in a vault years ago.”

Simple enough. “That’s no problem.”

“And I need to talk to the warden. It isn’t guaranteed—”

“Sofia.” I hold her gaze, refusing to relent. “You and I have privileged communication. You and Campbell have privileged communication. Help me close the goddamn triangle before Amato gets what he wants and puts them away forever.”

“I need a week,” she whispers. “And it’ll be cutting things close. The government will be gunning to take this to trial before their evidence falls apart.”

“But you can do it.” I make it a statement, not a question. Sofia nods anyway, and I add, “Then you have my permission.”

“I don’t have Campbell’s,” she counters. “You have to be the one to tell them.”

Sofia doesn’t need to worry about that.

I wouldn’t let this happen any other way.