The Final Bid

The phone buzzed me awake at 4:15 in the morning, and my skin flushed hot with anxiety when I recognized the country’s code on the display screen.

Italy. Shit. I gasped. “They found him?” I exhaled, shaking my head with a knowing smile. No... Not possible.

The ringing stopped.

“Twenty-four years,” I whispered, thinking back to February 12th, 1997.

The day Marco died.

According to the records, he was last seen checking into a hotel next to a small bookshop in Milan. A few missed appointments and no contact for days sent up red flags.

American and Italian officials searched to no avail. Two weeks later, Marco had been declared a ‘missing person’.

They weren’t entirely wrong to think that. Marco Franchetti had vanished. But it wasn’t like he got lost somewhere, jaunting through the hills.

He disappeared because I did what had to be done.

I killed my father, Marco, and threw his body in the Naviglio Grande.

And I did it all because of some old, worn out book he’d stolen from the boss, Franky Russo. It was just a book of mindless sketches and unintelligible ramblings I could have drawn in my sleep. Franky had let me see it once.

No big deal.

But it was Franky fucking Russo. What was Dad thinking?

The bedroom lit up with a pale, LED-blue as the cell phone came to life again, jingling loose change on the nightstand.

Same number. I sighed, snatching it up. “Hello?”

“Rosco Franchetti?” asked a man with an Italian accent.

“Speaking.”

“I am Ricardo Gambetta,” he said, trilling the ‘r’s’ in his name. “I have something for you. My father—he hold it for your father—many years now. He give his name, Marco, and your name, Signore Rosco. Now, mio padre—he is, uh—gone. É morto. I, uh… I find book for you. I find your telephone number, and I call. You come get it? Sí?”

My voice caught in my throat.

I had spent days tracking Dad down on Franky’s orders. From New York to Milan.

Franky demanded his book’s return, but I couldn’t go back without taking care of business.

The book should’ve been the easy part. But when I caught up to Dad, he swore he’d destroyed it. Burned it before Franky’s goons could discover it on him and shoot him between the eyes.

I relayed the news to Franky. Told him I personally saw it in flames. So, he settled for the lie.

But Dad still got it between the eyes—and one in the chest for good measure.

The Italian’s voice snapped me back. “Signore Franchetti?”

“I-I’m sorry. My book?”

“Sí. The black book. He leave it for—the, uh … appraisal. But your father, he never return. He never-”

“My dad was crazy, Mr. Gambetta. And that book… I’m just not interested. It caused too much trouble. I can’t get involved with all that again. Thank you, but...”

The man muttered in Italian as if talking to himself, then cleared his throat. “Signore Franchetti, I do not understand. It is very important.”

“I’ll sell it to you. I don’t have any use for an old journal I can’t even read.”

Ricardo went silent.

“If you don’t want to buy it, you can just-”

“I have only €16,500. It is not enough for-”

“Sold.” That was easy. And it ain’t even breakfast yet. “You can just wire the money?”

Ricardo replied in rapid fire. “Grazie Signore Franchetti! Grazie mille. Questa cambierà la mia vita!”

“My Italian’s not up to par.”

“I say, thank you. Thank you! This change my life!”

Let it collect dust on a shelf, for all I care. “We have a deal, then. I have my account number ready. Got a pen?”

#

The pistol tucked in Tommy’s belt gleamed as we walked under yellow-tinted lights lining the boardwalk. He pulled his coat down over the gun and smirked. “Why is it we always do this out here? Too many people around.”

“Do what? We’re just walking.”

“Yeah. Right. We’re just walking to the fucking shadows to collect from some guy who, you know, is gonna be short, and I’ll have to scare him. They’s kids walking around here, you know?”

I punched him in the arm. “Since when did you become so soft?”

He ignored the jab as we stepped into the dark, past the lamp posts, and around the corner of a utility shed. “Smells like dead fish over here.”

I was silent.

“So... Franky’s asked us all to grab drinks at Bareli’s tonight.”

I slid my silenced beretta from my pocket and put a bullet in the back of his head. “I’ll send your regrets, y’fucking snitch.”

“It does smell like shit out here,” said a man’s raspy voice.

As if unfolding from the shadows, Dom stepped out and began wrapping Tommy’s body in plastic. “Hey Rosco. I’ll take it from here. By the way, before I forget, Franky was asking to talk to you tonight.”

“What about?”

Dom knelt down on one knee beside Tommy to wrap twine around the body bag. “Fuck if I know. He just said for me to tell you.”

“When and where?”

“Tommy was a lying fuck, but he was telling the truth about tonight. We’re all going to Bareli’s at ten. Franky’ll be there.” Dom finished the last knot and slapped the corpse. “That’ll do.”

“Alright. I’ll see you at ten?”

“Sure. Oh, yeah. Franky said for you to bring your rubber boots. Y’know. The kind for rain.”

“Galoshes?”

“Yeah. Galoshes.”

“What the hell for?”

Dom shrugged. “Probably a metaphor or something. I didn’t question him.” He bent down, grabbed the end of the plastic-wrapped body, and began dragging it towards the docks.

#

I had just stepped inside Bareli’s when a meaty hand gripped the back of my neck.

“Rosco, m’boy!” Franky Russo said, pulling me in for a peck on each cheek.

“Franky. Good to see you. Hey... Dom said you wanted to see me?”

Franky stared ahead, nursing his shot of whiskey in small sips like he was measuring teaspoons in his mouth. After an awkward few seconds, he shot the rest back and smiled. “Yeah. Let’s go ahead.” He motioned towards the door to say, ‘after you,’ and we walked outside.

“Hey, Franky, I think Dom was out of his head, but he told me to bring rain boots?”

Franky burst into a fit of laughter and slapped me on the back so hard it stung. “Oh, shit. That must’ve been fucking confusing. Sorry. It’s from a quote.”

“What’s the quote?”

He ignored me. “Let’s walk. I got a story for you.”

“Sure.”

We headed east along the roadside as waves crashed on the shore a few hundred yards in front of us.

“So, this Spanish guy. He had some roots back in the old country, so to mark it off his bucket list, he took a trip to Rome. This was back in 1917. So, he’s taking it all in, when he sees this Italian broad. Beautiful girl. The Spanish guy smiles. She smiles back. The two of them hit it off, and they get to it. You follow?”

“Yeah. Guy hooks up with a beautiful woman in a beautiful city. A love story.” What’s the point?

“Exactly.” Franky lit a cigar and took a couple puffs. “Well, the girl got knocked up. And the guy’s a pretty well known, married man. She winds up having a little boy. Can’t give him his father’s name for obvious reasons. So, the runt takes his Momma’s… She named him Delamonte Russo.”

“Your father’s name?”

“Yeah. And his father’s, too. The Italian broad was Abriana Russo. My great grandmother.”

"Huh," I grunted. Our great grandmothers had the same first name?

“Well, my great grandad gave Abriana a gift. Something his son could keep to know where he really came from.”

“What was it?”

“What do you think it was? It was that book. You know the one.” He paused to let it sink in.

I clenched my teeth and could feel my pulse throbbing in my jawline.

“Your Dad fucked me over, Rosco. But you know that story.”

“Franky-”

“Shut the fuck up, Rosco. Keep walking... It broke my heart when he betrayed me like that. But you. You did the right thing about it all.” He grabbed the back of my neck again and squeezed. “So, when I saw something last night, it confused me. It brought all this emotion back up.” He opened the web browser on his cell and handed it to me. “Read it. Out loud.”

This can’t be happening. “Franky, I-”

“Read it!”

“It-It says, ‘Bookstore owner discovers Pablo Picasso’s first sketchbook.’ Picasso?! Franky, I had no idea.”

“This book guy sure knew what it was.” He sucked on the cigar and flicked it away. “The article says he bought it from an American for only twenty grand.”

“Franky, I-I didn’t know-”

“You motherfucker. You told me it was gone! Said you saw it, firsthand. The book—my fucking book—sold at auction for thirteen million.”

We arrived at the edge of the boardwalk, near the docks where I shot Tommy just hours before. Sweat gathered in beads on my skin.

“Franky, please.”

“‘A lie can travel around the world before the truth can put on its boots.’ That was the fucking quote you asked about.” He began shoving me backwards into the shadows.

“Franky! I’ll do anything.”

“Tell the truth, Rosco. At least be that loyal. Die with your boots on. Put on those galoshes! You’re gonna need them to keep your feet dry under water, you double-crossing sack of shit.” Franky pulled out his pistol. “Say hello to your dad for-”

Dom’s distinct voice interrupted from the shadows. “The quote was by Mark Twain, Franky. And I’m pretty sure you don’t understand it.”

Franky spun around, startled. “Dom? What the fuck?”

Dom stepped out, pointing his gun at Franky. “Don't worry, Rosco. You're safe tonight. I got a phone call. A friend of ours, telling me our boss, here, has a secret. It would appear we got a case of stolen identity. His grandaddy Delamonte had the former boss, Marco Senior, your grandad, whacked and shifted the hierarchy without high approval. Know what that means?”

“Bullshit!” said Franky.

From behind Dom came a Spanish voice, “No, it is not. You seek the book your grandfather stole. The notebook Marco Franchetti took back when he learned the truth. The Russos are the liars. Frauds. Pablo is Rosco Franchetti’s great grandfather, not yours, Franky.”

Franky began to speak, but the Spaniard shushed him.

“I’d listen to him, Franky,” said Dom, still pointing his gun.

The man from Spain stepped toward Franky. “Take the book, Mr. Russo, but the bidding starts at thirteen million.”

“Fuck you!” said Franky, spitting on the ground at his feet.

The man nodded to Dom.

“Going once,” said Dom. “Going twice…” He looked over to me and winked. “Do we have any other bids? No? Okay, then. Sold to the highest bidder!” Dom pulled the trigger and Franky’s blood sprayed across my face as he fell, crumpling to the ground. "Put on your boots, you lying fuck."

The Spaniard looked at me. “Rosco Franchetti. My name is Paulo Picasso.” He walked towards me with his hand extended. “It is nice to meet a cousin. We are cousins, no?”

I shook his hand limply—shock spreading my eyes wide.

Paulo slipped his hand into his inside vest pocket and pulled out a small black book. “I believe this is yours.”

“But how? Someone bought it for-”

“Thirteen million dollars. That is not much for our great grandfather’s first drawings. I have many sketchbooks of his. This one is yours.” He handed it to me. I opened it to the first page.

In small handwriting, in the bottom right corner, were the words my father must have read twenty-four years before. ‘For my love, Abriana F.’