Chapter 3 - The Midnight Delivery
The bell above the specialty market chimed softly as Matteo walked through the automatic doors. The night manager, a middle-aged man wearing an impeccably ironed apron, nearly dropped a tray of imported cheeses when he recognized the tall, tailored figure walking past the display cases.
“Mr. Rinaldi,” the manager stammered, rushing forward with a nervous bow. “We are honored. Is there something special we can prepare for your residence? Fresh truffles? Caviar—”
“None of that,” Matteo cut him off, his voice flat and authoritative. “I need boxes. Sturdy ones. Fill the first with fresh bread, artisan butter, whole milk, organic eggs—a dozen, not one—parmigiano, aged prosciutto, fresh pasta, and every variety of seasonal fruit you have in stock.”
The manager blinked, struggling to align the image of the ruthless mafia boss with a grocery list fit for a traditional family Sunday. “Yes, sir. Immediately. What about the other boxes?”
“Infant formula, high-grade vitamins, winter coats for a four-year-old girl, thermal blankets, children’s books, and whatever fresh pastries your bakery has left.” Matteo pulled a thick black card from his inner pocket and tossed it onto the glass counter. “Spare no expense. If it’s not the highest quality, leave it out.”
Within twenty minutes, three large cardboard boxes were loaded into the trunk of the Mercedes by trembling employees who didn’t dare ask a single question. Matteo didn’t drive back to the apartment immediately. He waited until 2:00 AM, parking his car two blocks away from the dilapidated tenement building. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a slick, reflective sheen on the asphalt.
He walked quietly through the broken front door of the building, his heavy leather shoes making no sound against the damp concrete steps. The smell of mildew and cheap gas grew stronger with every floor he climbed.
When he reached the fifth floor, the hallway was pitch black. He paused outside the door of apartment 5B. Through the thin wood, he could hear the soft, exhausted breathing of a woman sleeping fitfully, and the occasional gentle murmur of a child dreaming.
Matteo set the heaviest box down gently right in front of the door. On top of it, he placed a white envelope containing five thousand euros in cash—crisp bills held together by a paperclip—and a handwritten note on heavy cardstock.
May you like
He didn’t sign his name. He didn’t need to. He simply wrote: For Lia’s education and extra milk. A delayed bonus from the Rinaldi estate.
Standing up, he adjusted his coat cuffs, cast one final glance at the peeling paint of the door, and walked back down into the night. He had ensured no one saw him, but as he drove away into the dawn, he knew this was only the beginning.
