Chapter 7 - The Ledger of the North End
The re-indexing of the Bellandi-Castellano shipping books took three weeks.
Every loan book from South Boston to the river was audited. Every debt that had been collected by threat or broken bone was reviewed, recalibrated, or written off entirely. Men who had spent twenty years sleeping with one eye open began to find notes slipped under their doors—not notices of default, but receipts stamped in red ink: Paid in Full. By order of R. Castellano.
Marcus Vance lost six pounds in fourteen days and spent most of his time looking at his shoes.
Gino didn't fight it. After that Saturday afternoon in the warehouse, the old man had simply moved his things out of the corner office, handed over the iron safe keys, and retired to a small brick house in Revere where he spent his days feeding pigeons and watching the ferry boats go out toward the islands. He didn't call. He didn't write. He simply accepted that the house was finally empty.
Sierra Voss called twice. The first time, Rocco let the phone ring until the machine picked up her voice—bright, rehearsed, asking if he was feeling better. The second time, he picked up on the third ring, listened to her ask when he was coming back to the apartment, and said three words before he hung up permanently:
May you like
"I'm not coming."
Then he took the burner phone, walked down to the pier behind the warehouse, and dropped it into twenty feet of black water where the tide meets the harbor silt.
