Chapter 2.2: Winter of Our Discontent [01/30/1925]
"Mannaggia," Moretti said softly, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. With the Brotherhood's roots, it stood to reason that the parchment was inscribed in ancient characters, well beyond the reach of his meager education. Perhaps Rosalie could puzzle out its meaning. If not, Derby Sabini or one of his men might know someone that dealt in black market antiquities. There was also Ebenezer Albright, who Moretti had done business with on one occasion. The old man seemed knowledgeable, but Moretti doubted he'd lend a hand to anyone unless they waved a small fortune under his nose.
He folded the parchment and placed it in the drawer of his desk, then finished his cigarette and a second cup of coffee. Rising, he took his wine colored tie from the closet and went to the mirror to tie it.
And froze. Blinking at his reflection, he let out a slow, shuddering breath. Had he seen...?
No. No. He reached up, rubbing his jaw with his hand. It was the same scarred face he had looked at for years. Reaching out, he touched the glass to find it cool to the touch and perfectly ordinary.
The words tumbled out of his throat in a whisper, familiar to him since childhood. "Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori, adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte. Amen."
Mechanically, he tied his tie and left the room, heading downstairs.
When he reached the dining room, he nodded to everyone with a polite smile. Clapping Cotton on the shoulder, he said, "You doing alright this morning, paisan?"
He noted that O'Connor wasn't present. Admittedly, she had had a fair amount to drink at the end of the evening, but if she didn't appear soon, he knew that they would need to check on her. Finding an empty seat, he silently took in the layout of the room as he waited for a fresh cup of coffee.
When Rosalie asked her question, he looked to Cotton. "Do you want to tell them, or should I?"