Chapter 9
“No.”
Dante said it quietly.
Vincent’s face did not change.
Rinaldi walked away.
No one stopped him.
Elena remained seated.
Dante stared at Vincent.
Vincent stared back.
“Boss.”
“Don’t.”
One word.
Vincent stopped.
Elena looked around the restaurant.
People were watching.
Phones had appeared.
Of course.
She stood.
“Not here.”
Dante did not move.
Elena stepped closer.
“Dante.”
His eyes shifted to her.
“Not here.”
He nodded.
They left separately.
At Dante’s townhouse, the confrontation began before the door closed.
“How long?” Dante asked.
Vincent removed his coat.
“I didn’t kill your father.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I know.”
“How long have you known?”
Vincent looked at Elena.
She remained near the doorway.
“This is between you.”
Dante shook his head.
“No.”
Elena frowned.
“No?”
“If Rinaldi involved her father, then it concerns her too.”
Vincent sighed.
“Fifteen years.”
Dante went still.
“You knew for fifteen years that my father was murdered?”
“I knew his death was suspicious.”
“You told me heart failure.”
“That was the official finding.”
“You repeated it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“Because Matteo told me to.”
Dante stared.
“What?”
“Three weeks before he died, he told me that if anything happened to him, I was to protect you from investigating.”
Dante laughed.
It was a terrible sound.
Elena felt something twist inside her.
Another father.
Another lie.
Another decision disguised as protection.
Vincent continued.
“He knew someone inside the organization had turned.”
“Who?”
“I never knew.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
Dante crossed the room.
Vincent did not move.
For one dangerous second, Elena thought Dante might hit him.
He stopped inches away.
“You watched me bury him.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me spend fifteen years trusting the people around me.”
“Yes.”
“You let me build on top of a lie.”
Vincent’s face finally cracked.
“I kept you alive.”
Dante recoiled as if struck.
Elena closed her eyes.
There it was again.
The phrase.
The poison inside love.
I kept you alive.
As if survival erased consent.
Dante turned away.
Vincent looked older.
“I was twenty-six.”
“So was I.”
“I had served your father since I was eighteen.”
“That makes it worse.”
“I thought I was honoring his final order.”
Dante looked back.
“And now?”
Vincent swallowed.
“Now I think maybe I was a coward.”
Silence.
Elena understood that answer.
Dante did too.
His anger did not disappear.
But it changed.
He walked toward the window.
“Leave.”
Vincent nodded.
At the door, Dante spoke.
“Vincent.”
He stopped.
“I don’t know whether you come back.”
Vincent’s shoulders tightened.
“I understand.”
He left.
Elena remained.
Dante stood facing the window.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then he said, “This is what I did to you.”
Elena looked at him.
“What?”
“Deciding what you should know.”
“Yes.”
He nodded slowly.
“I hated him for thirty seconds.”
“Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe longer than thirty.”
“Probably.”
Dante turned.
“And then I realized I have done the same thing.”
Elena walked closer.
“Recognizing it doesn’t erase it.”
“I know.”
“But it matters.”
His eyes were red.
She had never seen Dante cry.
He did not now.
But he came close.
“We go to Chicago.”
“Yes.”
“Together?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
They flew that evening.
No Vincent.
Dante had other security personnel, but Elena insisted they remain outside the hotel.
Room 1108 was empty.
The bed had not been slept in.
A coffee cup sat beside the window.
Cold.
Elena touched it.
Dante checked the bathroom.
Nothing.
Then Elena saw the score.
Placed on the desk.
Mahler’s Fifth.
Her father’s favorite.
She opened it.
Across measure 314, someone had written:
STOP FOLLOWING MY GHOST.
Her father’s handwriting.
Elena sat.
“He was here.”
Dante looked around.
“He expected you.”
“Yes.”
Inside the score was an address.
South Michigan Avenue.
They arrived after midnight.
The building was old.
Six floors.
Ground level occupied by a closed music store.
Elena stared at the sign.
MORETTI RESTORATION & REPAIR.
Her knees weakened.
Dante looked at her.
“Your name.”
“Yes.”
They entered through an unlocked side door.
Upstairs, light showed beneath one door.
Elena stopped.
Her heart beat painfully.
Eight years.
Birthdays.
Christmases.
Her first concert back.
Her worst nights.
Every moment she had wished her father could see her.
He might have been alive.
She raised her hand.
Could not knock.
Dante stood behind her.
Not touching.
Elena finally knocked.
Footsteps.
Slow.
The door opened.
The man was older.
Much thinner.
White hair.
A cane in one hand.
But Elena knew him immediately.
Not from photographs.
From the way he tilted his head.
From the line beside his mouth.
From his eyes.
Her eyes.
Lorenzo Moretti stared at his daughter.
Neither spoke.
Then he whispered:
“Hello, Elena.”
She slapped him.
The sound cracked through the hallway.
Lorenzo did not move.
Elena’s hand shook.
Dante remained completely still.
Lorenzo looked at her.
“I deserved that.”
“Don’t.”
Her voice broke.
“Do not tell me what you deserve.”
“Elena—”
“You were alive.”
“Yes.”
“Eight years.”
“Yes.”
“I buried you.”
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“I watched from across the street.”
Elena made a sound Dante had never heard from her.
Not a sob.
Something deeper.
“You watched?”
Lorenzo’s face collapsed.
“I needed to know you were safe.”
“You watched me bury you?”
“Yes.”
Elena struck him again.
Dante moved instinctively.
Then stopped himself.
Lorenzo accepted it.
“You let me think I had no one.”
“I thought—”
“I know what you thought!”
Her voice exploded.
“You thought you were protecting me.”
Lorenzo closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
“I lost music because of you.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I know about Voss.”
“You let him destroy me.”
“I stopped him from killing you.”
“And you decided that was enough?”
Lorenzo looked shattered.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I failed.”
The simplicity stopped her.
No excuse.
No justification.
“I failed you.”
Elena’s breathing broke.
Lorenzo gripped his cane.
“I thought I had two choices. Let Rinaldi kill you, or disappear and let Voss ruin your career.”
“There was a third.”
“What?”
“Tell me.”
He looked down.
“Yes.”
“You could have trusted me.”
“Yes.”
“You could have let me decide what risks belonged to my life.”
“Yes.”
Elena began crying.
“I needed my father.”
Lorenzo’s face broke completely.
“I know.”
“No.”
She stepped backward.
“You don’t get to say that.”
He nodded.
“You’re right.”
Dante watched.
This was not reconciliation.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
It was truth arriving eight years late.
Lorenzo looked at Dante.
“You came.”
Dante’s expression hardened.
“You wrote my name.”
“I knew your father.”
“So I’ve learned.”
“You look like him.”
“People keep saying that today.”
Lorenzo almost smiled.
It vanished.
“Matteo was murdered.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“By whom?”
Lorenzo walked inside.
“Come in.”
Elena hesitated.
Then entered.
The apartment was small.
Scores everywhere.
A photograph of Elena at age sixteen sat on the shelf.
Another from her first conducting competition.
Another clipped from the newspaper six weeks earlier.
Guest Conductor Elena Moretti.
She stared.
“You followed my career.”
“Every day.”
Anger surged again.
“You don’t get credit for watching from hiding.”
“I know.”
Lorenzo opened a safe.
Removed a thick folder.
He handed it to Dante.
“Your father discovered that Nicholas Rinaldi was trafficking through companies Matteo wanted shut down.”
Dante opened the folder.
“Trafficking what?”
“People.”
Dante’s face changed.
Elena went cold.
“Matteo ordered it stopped. Rinaldi refused.”
Lorenzo continued.
“Matteo planned to turn evidence over to federal authorities.”
“And someone killed him first.”
“Yes.”
“Rinaldi?”
“No.”
Dante looked up.
Lorenzo’s eyes moved toward the door.
“Someone closer.”
A floorboard creaked outside.
Dante turned instantly.
The lights went out.
Elena heard glass break.
Then a gunshot.
Dante hit the floor.
“Dante!”
He grabbed Elena and pulled her behind the kitchen island.
Another shot.
Lorenzo disappeared into the darkness.
Elena’s heart stopped.
“Dad!”
A door slammed.
Footsteps thundered downstairs.
Dante reached for his phone.
Security entered less than thirty seconds later.
The apartment lights returned.
Broken window.
Blood on the floor.
Elena froze.
“Whose blood?”
Dante checked himself.
Not his.
Then they found Lorenzo.
He lay beside the safe.
A bullet had struck his shoulder.
He was conscious.
Barely.
Elena dropped beside him.
“Dad.”
His eyes opened.
“Elena.”
“Don’t move.”
He caught her wrist.
“The folder.”
“Dante has it.”
“No.”
Lorenzo struggled to breathe.
“Wrong folder.”
Dante stared.
“What?”
Lorenzo pointed weakly toward the open safe.
“They took the real one.”
Elena looked toward the shattered window.
The attacker had not come to kill Lorenzo.
They had come for evidence.
Dante knelt.
“Who knew you had it?”
Lorenzo’s eyes met his.
“Three people.”
“Names.”
“Me.”
He coughed.
“Matteo.”
May you like
Another breath.
“And Vincent Russo.”
