Dialect of Power Chapter 10

The Price of a Secret

The knowledge of Alberto Rossi’s name festered inside me like a poison. It was a tangible piece of the war, a secret I now carried for the enemy. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Corsica’s fingers tapping out that silent command. Attenzione. He had weaponized my perception, and I had let him.

The pressure from Marco intensified. He left a voicemail, his voice strained. “Veronica, it’s Marco. We’ve lost contact with Alberto Rossi. He was our key witness against Corsica on the racketeering charges. He’s just… vanished. If you hear anything, anything at all, you need to call me. This is serious.”

Vanished. The word echoed in the silent apartment. Handled. Corsica’s euphemism from the blue van incident now took on a new, more sinister meaning. Had Rossi been “handled” too? Was I now complicit in a man’s disappearance? My stomach churned. I felt dirty, contaminated by the secrets I was keeping.

I stared at the encrypted phone, lying inert on my coffee table. It was the source of all this moral decay. I had to do something. I had to regain a shred of control.

I picked it up. My fingers were cold as I typed, the words a desperate attempt to draw a line in the sand.

A man is missing. Alberto Rossi. Did you have him “handled”?

I threw the phone down, my heart hammering. I was challenging him. Accusing him. It was a reckless, stupid thing to do. I waited for the wrath, for the cold reminder of my place.

The response came faster than I expected.

He is not your concern.

The dismissal was absolute, infuriating. He wasn’t denying it. He was simply telling me my feelings on the matter were irrelevant. I was a tool, and tools don’t question their use.

Fury, hot and sharp, cut through the fear. I snatched the phone back up.

He is if it makes me an accessory! I won’t be a part of this. I won’t be your… your conscience-launderer!

It was a scream into the void, a child’s tantrum against a hurricane. I expected scorn. I expected a threat.

What I received was silence.

A long, stretching, unbearable silence. The phone remained dark. He had shut me down. My defiance was so insignificant it wasn’t even worth a response.

The powerlessness was crushing. I was trapped in his web, and my struggles only seemed to bind me tighter. I was drowning in the grey morality of his world, and he was refusing to even acknowledge my gasps for air.

The next day in court, the empty seat where Salvatore’s man had sat felt like a monument. Corsica was inscrutable as ever, but there was a new, chilling finality to his demeanor. The threat from within had been neutralized, for now. He was consolidating his power.

During a break, I went to the restroom, needing a moment away from the oppressive tension. I stood at the sink, splashing cold water on my face, trying to wash away the feeling of complicity.

The door opened. I looked up into the mirror.

And froze.

Standing behind me was Gio, Corsica’s massive, silent enforcer. He filled the doorway, his presence sucking all the air from the room. His small, dark eyes were fixed on me.

My heart stopped. This was it. This was the punishment for my impertinent texts. He was here to “handle” me.

I turned slowly, my back pressing against the cold porcelain of the sink. I had nowhere to run.

Gio didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

I flinched, bracing for a gun, a knife.

But he pulled out a small, elegant paper bag, the kind from an expensive patisserie. He held it out to me, his expression unreadable.

Confused, terrified, I just stared.

He gestured with the bag, insistent.

With a trembling hand, I took it. It was warm.

I peeked inside. There was a single, perfect cornetto, dusted with powdered sugar. And tucked beside it, a small slip of paper.

Gio gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, then turned and left the restroom as silently as he had entered.

I stood there, alone, holding the bag, my mind reeling. I pulled out the slip of paper. There was no name, no signature. Just two words, written in a strong, slashing script.

Mangia. Riposati.

Eat. Rest.

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a command about the war. It was an order to take care of myself. A bizarre, terrifying, and perversely intimate gesture.

This was his response. Not to my words, but to my distress. He had seen my panic, my moral crisis, and this was his answer. Not reassurance. Not denial. But a reminder.

A reminder that I was his. My well-being was his concern. My obedience was his expectation. And my conscience was a luxury he would not permit.

I looked at the cornetto, then at my pale, frightened reflection in the mirror.

He wasn’t just protecting my life. He was annexing my soul. And the price of his protection was becoming clearer with every passing moment.

It was everything.