Matteo Cosenza Was Not Salvatore Rossi’s Brother
Chapter 02 - Matteo Cosenza Was Not Salvatore Rossi’s Brother
Salvatore lied in the last sentence.
Not entirely.
That was the Rossi family specialty, I would learn.
Give enough truth that the lie can stand up without help.
Matteo Cosenza was not Salvatore Rossi’s brother.
He had been something more complicated.
They were born on the same street in Palermo six months apart.
Matteo’s father disappeared when Matteo was nine.
Salvatore’s mother fed him afterward.
He slept in the Rossi apartment during winters.
Worked with Salvatore’s older brother, Luca, at the docks.
Shared schoolbooks.
Shared shoes once, according to Salvatore.
“Brother enough,” the old man said.
That was different.
After service ended, Richard asked me to leave through the kitchen because reporters had appeared near the front entrance.
I refused.
Not the leaving.
The route.
I did not want men deciding which door I used because a Rossi had become emotional over dinner.
Gabriel heard.
He said:
“She leaves the way she normally leaves.”
Richard nodded too quickly.
Power is useful when it agrees with you.
That does not make it healthy.
Outside, Gabriel stood beneath the awning.
No umbrella.
Rain misted the street.
“Tessa.”
I kept walking.
“Ms. Bell.”
That stopped me.
I had never told him my last name.
He saw my face.
“Reservation employment records.”
“Those are private.”
“I asked Richard after my father mentioned Cosenza.”
“That does not improve the sentence.”
His jaw moved.
He understood.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at him.
Men like Gabriel Rossi probably apologized the way other people bought fire extinguishers.
Rarely.
After smoke.
“What do you want?”
“To know what’s in the notebook.”
“No.”
“My father believes it concerns my uncle.”
“Your father called Cosenza his brother.”
“He meant Luca.”
Now I was confused.
Gabriel explained.
Salvatore had one biological brother.
Luca Rossi.
Ten years older.
Dead since 1987.
Officially killed in Palermo during a labor dispute.
No body returned to the United States.
No funeral with remains.
Just a stone in Queens.
I thought of Salvatore’s words.
My brother’s grave.
“Cosenza knew where Luca was buried?”
“Apparently.”
“Why would that matter after forty years?”
Gabriel looked toward the street.
“My father has spent forty years believing Luca was killed by a rival family.”
“And?”
“And Matteo Cosenza was the last person seen with him.”
I stared.
“That man spent twenty years complaining about cable prices and making chickpea fritters in an apartment with roaches.”
Gabriel looked at me.
“People can be ordinary after they stop being dangerous.”
I hated that sentence because it was probably true.
Then he said:
“I won’t come to your apartment.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You’re thinking I’m going to ask for the notebook.”
“You are.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I’m saying I won’t come to your home unless invited.”
That was better than I expected.
Still:
“No.”
He nodded.
“Then photograph the pages.”
“No.”
“Tessa.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what you have.”
“That is exactly why I’m not handing it to the first crime family that asks.”
His mouth almost smiled.
“I’m not used to being described that efficiently.”
“Practice.”
A black sedan waited by the curb.
His driver opened the door.
Gabriel did not move.
“Would you let an attorney review it?”
“My attorney?”
“If you have one.”
I laughed.
“I owe seventy-eight thousand dollars in medical debt.”
He looked at me.
I regretted saying it.
Not because it was secret.
Because wealthy men sometimes hear debt as an invitation to become necessary.
Gabriel said:
“I can give you the name of someone independent.”
“No Rossi money?”
“No.”
“No firm that represents you?”
“No.”
“No favor?”
“No.”
I took his card.
Not trust.
Contact.
At home, the blue biscuit tin sat beneath my bed.
Mr. Cosenza had given it to me two weeks before he died.
He was in hospice.
Angry because the gelatin tasted like “hospital window sealant.”
He pointed at the tin.
“For you.”
“What is it?”
“Bad cooking.”
“Then keep it.”
He swore at me.
Then grew serious.
“If a man named Rossi ever asks about me, don’t lie.”
I remembered that now.
At the time I thought it was morphine.
I opened the tin.
Recipe cards.
Photographs.
The black notebook.
I looked at the first pages for the first time.
Recipes.
Panelle.
Sarde a beccafico.
Pasta con le sarde.
Then numbers beside ingredients.
17/4.
3-11.
L.R.
M.C.
S.R.
Page twenty-three changed.
No recipes.
Names.
Dates.
Amounts.
Dock numbers.
Shipping companies.
Cash distributions.
I understood enough to know it was not a diary.
It was a ledger.
At the back, a folded photograph.
Three young men beside a harbor.
Salvatore.
Matteo.
A third man.
Older.
Handsome.
Same gray-blue eyes Gabriel had.
Luca Rossi.
On the back:
PALERMO, 1986 — BEFORE LUCA SAID NO.
I stared at the words.
Then another paper slipped out.
An American death certificate.
Luca Rossi.
Date of death:
March 14, 2004.
Seventeen years after he was supposedly murdered in Palermo.
Place:
Cleveland, Ohio.
Cause:
Congestive heart failure.
I sat on the floor.
Salvatore Rossi’s brother had not died in Sicily.
He had lived in America for another seventeen years.
Then I saw the informant line.
Person providing information:
MATTEO COSENZA.
And beneath Luca’s name, in smaller print:
Also known as Louis Ross.
I thought of Mr. Cosenza carrying tomatoes.
Ordinary after dangerous.
Maybe.
Then I found one final folded note.
Tessa—
If Salvatore asks, tell him Luca lived.
If Gabriel asks, tell him to look at page 41 before he decides what kind of man his father was.
I turned to page forty-one.
One sentence in English.
May you like
SALVATORE DID NOT ORDER LUCA’S DEATH.
HE ORDERED SOMETHING WORSE.
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