Chapter 8
Marco had approached four capos separately.
Different arguments for each.
Thomas heard continuity.
Samuel heard concerns about my age—ridiculous at forty, but apparently stress ages men faster in gossip.
Peter heard that I was considering stepping away from waterfront operations.
Another heard that my health might force me to delegate.
Different versions.
Same destination.
Marco.
I gathered them.
No Celeste.
No Anna.
No Mia.
Adults only.
“What did he promise?”
Thomas: stability.
Samuel: autonomy.
Peter: route control.
The fourth, Gabriel, received nothing.
“He just asked whether I thought you trusted anyone.”
Interesting.
Marco tailored desire.
That was good politics.
Not proof of conspiracy.
I looked around.
“Who believes Romano needs clearer incapacity rules?”
All four hands.
Mine too.
“Who believes Marco should automatically run it?”
No hands.
He stared.
“You cowards.”
Thomas shook his head.
“No. You never asked us that.”
There.
Marco had mistaken agreement with a problem for agreement with his solution.
Common.
Dangerous.
He built a faction out of separate conversations.
Not actual loyalty.
I almost admired the efficiency.
Then I remembered Anna’s hands.
No.
“Temporary authority will exist,” I said.
Marco looked surprised.
“Rotating.”
His expression changed.
“Three people.”
No single chair.
Medical confirmation from two independent physicians.
No household relative controlling evidence.
No capo allowed to benefit from initiating the process.
Boring safeguards.
Necessary.
Marco laughed.
“You think rules stop ambition?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
May you like
“They make ambition work harder in daylight.”
That was enough.
