Chapter 10: Armando's
The restaurant wasn't open at noon.
Gabriel had made sure of that.
The manager — a compact man named Sal who clearly knew Gabriel and clearly preferred not to — had cleared the dining room, sent the lunch staff home early, and left a single table set near the back window.
Two chairs.
A bottle of water.
No menus.
I sat at the bar with Dov and two men I hadn't been introduced to and watched the door.
Vitelli arrived at twelve fifty-eight.
He was smaller than I expected.
Compact, well-dressed, with the careful movements of a man who had learned long ago that stillness reads as power.
He was alone, which surprised me, and then I noticed the two men who came in behind him and positioned themselves near the entrance without sitting down.
He saw Gabriel at the table.
He didn't see me yet.
He crossed the room, sat down, and poured himself a glass of water.
"You're early," he said.
"I'm always early," Gabriel said.
"You know that."
Vitelli looked around the empty restaurant.
"No lawyers?"
"I didn't think we needed them."
"Confident." Vitelli smiled.
It didn't reach his eyes.
"I have a proposal for you, Gabriel.
Very simple.
You withdraw your bid on the Port Authority contract.
You do it quietly, citing a scheduling conflict.
No drama.
In exchange, I make a phone call and a certain federal contact of mine loses interest in a certain line of inquiry."
"The line of inquiry involving my ex-wife."
"The line of inquiry involving a photograph that places your ex-wife in contact with a man who disappeared under circumstances that federal investigators find very interesting." Vitelli set down his glass.
"I don't want to use it.
I want you to understand that.
This is a business arrangement, not a personal one."
"I appreciate that distinction," Gabriel said.
"So we have an agreement?"
"Not yet." Gabriel looked toward the bar.
"Claire."
I walked across the restaurant and sat down in the third chair that Dov had placed at the table before Vitelli arrived.
Vitelli looked at me.
His expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes recalibrated.
"Ms.
Harmon," he said.
"Mr.
Vitelli." I placed a folder on the table.
"I thought you should see something before this conversation goes any further."
He looked at the folder but didn't touch it.
"The photograph you've been circulating," I said, "is a fabrication.
The man standing beside me in the original image is a British cardiologist named Peter Ashworth.
He was a keynote speaker at the Rome conference I attended that week.
He has no connection to your organization, to Gabriel's organization, or to the man named Reeves whose face was digitally substituted into the altered version."
Vitelli's expression remained pleasant.
"That's an interesting claim."
"It's not a claim." I opened the folder and turned it toward him.
"These are the authenticated originals.
Timestamp, metadata, chain of custody documentation, and a signed statement from the photographer who took them." I watched his eyes move across the page.
"The photographer, by the way, has also provided a full account of the instructions he received, the client who commissioned the surveillance, and the timeline of events.
That account has already been transmitted to three separate parties."
Vitelli looked up from the folder.
"Which parties?" he said.
His voice was still pleasant.
But something had changed in the room.
"His own legal counsel," I said.
"A journalist at the Times who covers organized crime and federal investigations.
And the federal contact you mentioned — the one building a case." I paused.
"I thought it was important that they have the original images before anyone presented them with the altered version."
The silence at the table was very specific.
Vitelli looked at Gabriel.
"You moved fast."
"She moved fast," Gabriel said.
"I just drove."
Vitelli sat back in his chair.
He looked at the folder for a long moment.
Then he looked at me with an expression that was, I thought, almost genuine.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
"No," I said.
"I'm not."
He looked at Gabriel.
"The Marchetti meeting."
"Cancelled," Gabriel said.
"Sal made a call this morning.
A scheduling conflict."
Vitelli's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"You moved on that before you knew how this meeting would go."
"I moved on it because I already knew," Gabriel said.
"You had a man in my building last night.
He talked."
The two men near the entrance shifted slightly.
Vitelli raised one hand without looking at them and they stilled.
"What do you want?" Vitelli said.
"I want you to withdraw," Gabriel said.
"From the Port Authority bid.
From any further action against my family.
From any contact with Harlan Bates, Marco Reyes, or anyone else connected to the events of the past six years." He paused.
"And I want the name of your federal contact.
The one you've been feeding information to."
"That's a great deal to ask."
"It's everything," Gabriel said.
"And you're going to give it to me because the alternative is that I share what I have with the same journalist who now has the original photographs.
And the story she writes won't be about a Port Authority contract."
Vitelli looked at the folder.
At me.
At Gabriel.
His two men near the entrance were very still.
"All right," he said finally.
He reached into his jacket.
Gabriel's posture didn't change, but Dov moved from the bar.
Vitelli produced a business card and set it on the table.
"The contact's name is on the back," he said.
"He's been on my payroll for eighteen months.
What you do with that is your business."
Gabriel picked up the card without looking at it.
Vitelli stood.
He straightened his jacket.
He looked at me one more time.
"For what it's worth," he said, "I never intended to touch the boys."
"I know," I said.
"But you were willing to let them believe they weren't safe.
That's enough."
He held my gaze for a moment.
Then he nodded, once, and walked out.
His two men followed.
The door closed.
The restaurant was very quiet.
Gabriel looked at the business card in his hand.
Then he set it on the table and looked at me.
"It's done," he said.
I looked around the empty restaurant.
The single set table.
May you like
The untouched water glasses.
"Almost," I said.
