Chapter 8
I called every senior capo who had a labeled box.
Not to play them.
To tell them.
That was worse.
Anger is easier when betrayal is abstract.
Harder when a man sees his own initials burned into wood.
Twenty-three boxes belonged to living capos.
Eleven to relatives.
Nine to staff.
Seven to people already dead.
One to me.
Several men demanded we destroy everything immediately.
Others wanted to listen first.
That surprised me.
“Why?”
Victor answered.
“I want to know what she has.”
Of course.
Fear.
If a secret exists, people want control over its shape.
I understood.
Still no.
“We verify the box belongs to you.”
Then?
“You decide whether it is destroyed unopened or given to you.”
Silence.
One capo frowned.
“What if there’s something dangerous about someone else inside?”
Fair.
We created one exception.
If a recording clearly concerned immediate danger to another person, a neutral pair would review only enough to identify that issue.
No fishing.
No entertainment.
No political use.
Marina laughed when she heard the rule.
“You’re pretending privacy can be clean.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“I’m refusing to use your wrongdoing as permission to become you.”
That silenced her.
My own box sat on the table.
LV-01 through LV-19.
Nineteen recordings.
I did not listen.
Claire asked if I wanted to.
“Yes.”
“Then why not?”
“Because wanting to know is not the same as needing to know.”
That was difficult to say.
Harder to practice.
I took my boxes home.
Placed them in the fireplace.
One by one.
I watched years of private conversations blacken without hearing a word.
Claire stood beside me.
“Anything you regret losing?”
“Probably.”
She smiled faintly.
“Good.”
“What?”
“That’s what privacy costs.”
I looked at her.
Sometimes privacy means accepting that something important may exist beyond your reach.
Marina had been unable to tolerate that.
Maybe none of us had been taught to.
Mafia families survive on information.
May you like
We call ignorance weakness.
That night I learned ignorance can also be restraint.
