Page 138 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

The handwriting sits on the page like a lie in good clothes.

I slide my phone out with the speed of someone who has practiced a thousand small shames.

Click. Click.

The paper breathes between the shutter noises.

Nico watches me.

His jaw tightens in the way it does when he is pleased by something that might hurt someone else.

“You got it?” he asks.

“Enough,” I say. “We can prove the name’s been reused.”

He nods.

He touches my wrist lightly. “Good. Now, nothing stupid. Blend.”

We leave with the sound of the fluorescent light flicking and a bearded man who forgets to lock the door behind us.

Outside, the black sedan waits two cars down, windows too dark, engine too patient.

Tino plays the long game and stays in the line of sight like an uncle at a wedding.

Rafe eases the car into the alley like he is sweeping a floor he knows how to clean.

We go to a diner on the corner.

It smells like eggs and paper, safe in a way warehouses never are.

Nico orders coffee in a voice that makes the woman at the counter send him an extra cup.

I sit with my phone open.

The photos are crisp enough to show at a glance what we need—Geno’s name, the code, a notation that ties a delivery route to a route Marco uses.

Nico takes two bites of toast and tells me in a low voice what he already knows.

“We need the rest of that file.” He slides a napkin close and draws two lines with his finger. “We need proof it crossed Santangelo accounts. That rustles the right papers with the right handlers.”

I nod because I know the map.

Santangelo fronts mean invoices, then cash, then a receipt that disappears into a drawer.

We spend fifteen minutes making calls with the kind of tone that buys you a person’s pity and their loyalty.

Rafe gets a driver to admit the lot’s ledger is sloppy.

Tino says he’ll plant a man in the courier rotation for an afternoon.

Someone answers because someone always does when you ask like you own the person’s patience.

Then Nico says, “You go down to the café on Bayard. Ask Miss Rosa for the back ledger. She keeps slips under the register for deliveries. Ask for a receipt for Geno Petruzzi. Say it’s for a charity audit. Be pleasant.”

Rosa runs the café with a glare like a purse she takes seriously.

She knows Nico’s type—well-dressed, good shoes, the smell of having friends who pay attention.