Chapter 8
The first attack came forty-eight hours later.
Not with a gun.
Not with a bomb.
With a headline.
ELENA MORETTI’S SECRET MOB CONNECTIONS EXPOSED.
By six in the morning, every major entertainment site had published some version of it.
By seven, financial reporters had joined.
By eight, photographs of Lorenzo Moretti appeared beside images of Matteo Valente, Nicholas Rinaldi, and Dante.
By nine, Elena’s Berlin engagement had been “temporarily placed under review.”
At nine-ten, Boston requested an emergency call.
At nine-fifteen, Miriam Shaw walked into Elena’s apartment carrying coffee and rage.
“Do not read comments.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You’re reading comments.”
Elena turned her phone over.
Miriam dropped a newspaper onto the table.
The story contained real information.
That was the dangerous part.
Lorenzo’s name.
Aria North.
Old payments.
Dante’s family.
Mixed with lies.
Elena had supposedly used Dante’s influence to engineer Voss’s removal.
Her guest-conductor appointment had supposedly been arranged before the board review.
She had supposedly known about her father’s criminal connections for years.
“Somebody has documents,” Miriam said.
“Partial documents.”
“Yes.”
“Rinaldi.”
“Probably.”
Dante stood by the window.
He had been silent for ten minutes.
Elena knew why.
He was trying not to take control.
She appreciated the effort.
It also irritated her.
“Say it.”
He looked at her.
“What?”
“The thing you’re trying not to say.”
“I think you should cancel tonight’s performance.”
Miriam looked between them.
Elena folded her arms.
“Why?”
“Security.”
“Specific threat?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
“Elena.”
“You were allowed one sentence.”
Dante’s jaw flexed.
Miriam sipped coffee.
“I like this relationship.”
Neither looked at her.
At noon, Westbridge’s board held an emergency meeting.
Elena attended.
So did Dante.
The chairman began carefully.
“We support you.”
“That sounds like something people say before ‘but.’”
He sighed.
“But public pressure is substantial.”
“Meaning?”
“Several donors have concerns.”
“About my father?”
“About perception.”
Elena almost smiled.
“Perception destroyed my career once.”
The room became uncomfortable.
Good.
She continued.
“If you remove me because evidence shows I committed wrongdoing, I will accept it.”
“No one is suggesting—”
“If you remove me because my father may have committed crimes, say that clearly.”
Nobody did.
Elena looked around the table.
“If you remove me because the man I’m dating inherited a criminal organization, then you should have raised that concern before accepting his foundation’s money.”
Dante lowered his eyes.
Probably to hide satisfaction.
The chairman cleared his throat.
“We are not removing you.”
“Then what are we discussing?”
“Whether tonight’s performance should proceed.”
Elena stood.
“It proceeds.”
One trustee said, “Ms. Moretti, this is not solely your decision.”
“No.”
She nodded.
“You’re right.”
That surprised them.
“The orchestra decides whether they play. Management decides whether the building opens. The audience decides whether they attend.”
She picked up her folder.
“I decide whether I conduct.”
She looked around the room.
“I will.”
That evening, every seat was occupied.
Some came for music.
Some came for scandal.
Elena did not care.
She walked onto the stage.
Applause mixed with scattered boos.
Dante rose halfway from his seat.
Elena looked at him.
He sat.
She almost smiled.
Then raised the baton.
The orchestra entered.
The performance was magnificent.
Not because Elena was fearless.
She was terrified.
But fear had become familiar.
It no longer held authority.
During the second movement, a man stood in the balcony.
He shouted.
“ASK HER ABOUT THE BLOOD MONEY!”
Security moved.
Elena stopped the orchestra.
Four thousand people waited.
The man shouted again.
“YOUR FATHER WAS A CRIMINAL!”
Elena lowered the baton.
She looked up.
“My father is not on this stage.”
The audience became silent.
“I am.”
She raised the baton again.
“From measure eighty-seven.”
The orchestra resumed.
The audience never interrupted again.
Afterward, Elena walked backstage.
Dante met her.
“That was reckless.”
“Yes.”
“Infuriating.”
“Yes.”
“Extraordinary.”
She smiled.
“You’re learning.”
Vincent appeared.
“Bad time?”
“Usually,” Dante said.
Vincent handed Elena a tablet.
“We found the source of the leaked documents.”
“Rinaldi?”
“No.”
She frowned.
“Who?”
“Malcolm Voss.”
Elena stared.
“He’s under indictment.”
“He still has allies.”
“Why now?”
Vincent swiped.
An email appeared.
Voss had sent encrypted files to a journalist three weeks before his arrest.
But attached metadata revealed something else.
Someone had supplied Voss with the Lorenzo documents.
Initials.
N.R.
Rinaldi.
Elena handed back the tablet.
“So they’re working together.”
“Or using each other,” Dante said.
Vincent nodded.
“There’s more.”
Dante sighed.
“There is always more.”
“Rinaldi requested a meeting.”
“With me?”
Vincent looked at Elena.
“No.”
Her stomach tightened.
“With Elena.”
Dante’s expression became ice.
“No.”
Elena looked at him.
He closed his eyes.
“Apologies.”
“Accepted.”
Vincent continued.
“Tomorrow. Noon. Public restaurant. Midtown.”
“Why?”
“He says he knows where Lorenzo is.”
Elena did not breathe.
Dante spoke carefully.
“It could be bait.”
“Yes.”
“He could be lying.”
“Yes.”
“He could be trying to use you.”
“Yes.”
Dante waited.
Elena looked at Vincent.
“Tell him I’ll come.”
Dante’s eyes closed briefly.
She touched his arm.
“You can sit two tables away.”
His eyes opened.
“Directly behind you.”
“Two tables.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Fine.”
Vincent muttered, “Romance.”
The following day, Nicholas Rinaldi arrived at 11:58.
He was seventy.
Elegant.
Silver hair.
No visible security.
Elena sat alone at the table.
Dante sat two tables away.
Vincent sat near the entrance.
Rinaldi smiled.
“You look like Lorenzo.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“You have his impatience.”
“Where is he?”
Rinaldi laughed softly.
“No coffee?”
“No.”
“Your father loved coffee.”
“My father also let me believe he was dead.”
Rinaldi’s smile faded.
“Yes.”
“You knew.”
“I helped arrange it.”
Dante shifted behind her.
Elena did not look back.
“Why?”
“To save your life.”
“That phrase is becoming very unpopular with me.”
Rinaldi studied her.
“Lorenzo understood necessity.”
“He understood lying.”
“He understood survival.”
“Where is he?”
Rinaldi leaned back.
“Chicago.”
“Where?”
“I will tell you.”
Elena waited.
“In exchange for the archive.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what it contains.”
“I know enough.”
“It could destroy Dante.”
Elena’s expression did not change.
Rinaldi looked past her.
“Did he tell you that?”
“He doesn’t need to.”
Rinaldi smiled.
“Interesting.”
Elena leaned forward.
“Here is what you misunderstand. I am not protecting Dante from consequences.”
Dante heard every word.
“If he committed crimes documented in that archive, he answers for them.”
Rinaldi’s smile disappeared.
Dante stared at Elena.
She continued.
“And if my father committed crimes, he answers too.”
Rinaldi’s eyes hardened.
“Very principled.”
“No.”
Elena sat back.
“Just tired of powerful men deciding which truths everyone else is allowed to survive.”
Rinaldi looked at her for a long time.
Then placed a hotel key card on the table.
THE LANGHAM CHICAGO.
Room 1108.
Elena stared.
“Is he there?”
“He was yesterday.”
“Why are you giving me this?”
Rinaldi stood.
“Because Lorenzo has something that belongs to me.”
“The archive.”
“No.”
Rinaldi buttoned his jacket.
“Something much worse.”
“What?”
He looked at Dante.
Then at Elena.
“Proof that Matteo Valente was murdered.”
Dante stood.
The restaurant seemed to disappear.
Rinaldi smiled faintly.
“And proof that the person who ordered it is still sitting at the center of Dante’s organization.”
Vincent went completely still.
Elena turned.
Dante stared at him.
May you like
Vincent stared back.
And for the first time since Elena had known them, trust between the two men fractured visibly.
