Seven months after I cut off my hair, bound my chest, and vanished before my forced wedding, Chicago’s most feared crime boss finally looked straight at me 015 - Story01

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Michael's handwriting.

I saw the photograph of him beside the black sedan. I heard the gunshots in the abandoned workshop. And I read the anonymous messages until the words seemed to burn themselves into my mind.

Stop trusting Moretti.

He knows why your brother died.

By sunrise, I had convinced myself of three different explanations.

The first was that someone wanted to separate Dante and me because our relationship had become politically inconvenient.

The second was that Dante had information about Michael's death and had chosen not to tell me.

The third was that the second explanation was true, and I was desperately searching for reasons not to believe it.

I hated all three possibilities.

At eight in the morning, I found Dante in his office.

He was standing beside the windows, speaking quietly to Rafael. A stack of documents covered the desk, and a half-empty cup of coffee sat beside his phone.

He looked tired.

Not physically exhausted, exactly, but worn down by the kind of responsibility that allowed a man to close his eyes for only a few hours before the world demanded another decision.

When Rafael left, Dante turned toward me.

"You haven't slept."

"Neither have you."

"I asked first."

"And I answered by observing that you're a hypocrite."

His mouth twitched.

"Come here."

I walked toward him.

He reached for my waist, but I stopped just outside his arms.

The movement was small.

His expression changed immediately.

"What's wrong?"

I could have shown him the messages.

Instead, I asked a different question.

"How long have you known about Northstar?"

He studied me carefully.

"Since yesterday, officially. I suspected there was a connection between Bellamy's business and several companies operating in my territory, but I didn't have enough evidence to establish it."

"And Michael?"

"What about him?"

"Did you know he was investigating Northstar before I found his notebook?"

Dante didn't answer immediately.

My stomach tightened.

"Elena—"

"Please don't give me an answer designed to make me feel better."

He looked toward the desk.

Then he returned his gaze to mine.

"Yes."

The word struck harder than I expected.

"How long?"

"Four years."

I felt as though the floor had shifted beneath my feet.

"Four years."

"Listen to me."

"No. You listen to me."

My voice sounded frighteningly calm.

"My brother died four years ago. My father lied to me. Marcus tried to force me into a marriage. And now I find out that you knew Michael was investigating the same people who destroyed my life."

"I knew he was asking questions. I didn't know the full extent of what he'd found."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't know you existed in the way I know you now."

I stared at him.

"That is a terrible answer."

"I know."

"Did you investigate his death?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Dante looked away for a moment.

"Because Michael came to me."

Everything stopped.

I couldn't hear the traffic beyond the windows. I couldn't hear the heating system or the distant voices in the garage below.

All I could hear was my own heartbeat.

"What?"

"Three days before the accident, he came to one of my offices. He asked for a meeting."

"You met him?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"He told me that someone was using legitimate businesses to move money through Northstar. He believed the transfers were connected to Bellamy's organization and that your father had been pressured into signing documents he didn't understand."

I shook my head.

"Michael would have told me."

"He wanted to protect you."

"Everyone keeps using that excuse."

"I know."

"Did you help him?"

Dante's silence was answer enough.

"You didn't."

"I offered him a way to leave the city. I told him to bring me the records and let my people verify them before he confronted anyone."

"But he didn't."

"No."

"Why?"

Dante looked at me.

"Because he believed someone inside his family was in danger."

My throat tightened.

"Me."

"Yes."

I turned away.

For years, I had imagined Michael's final days as a series of ordinary events leading to an unexpected tragedy. He had gone to work, made plans, argued with our father, and driven home through the rain.

I had never imagined him seeking help from a man like Dante.

I had never imagined him trying to save me.

"Did you know Marcus was planning to marry me?"

"I knew there was an arrangement between your father and the Bellamys. I didn't know you were being forced into it until after you disappeared."

"And after Michael died?"

"I continued investigating."

"Then why did you stop?"

Dante walked toward the desk.

He opened a drawer and removed a thin folder.

"I didn't stop."

He handed it to me.

Inside were copies of the police report, photographs of the wreckage, and several pages of notes written by a private investigator.

I recognized the road where Michael's car had been found.

I recognized the damaged guardrail.

But one photograph showed something I had never seen before.

A dark vehicle parked on a service road several hundred yards from the accident site.

The image was grainy, taken from a traffic camera.

"What's this?"

"The vehicle was registered to a company connected to Bellamy Freight. The registration was transferred two days after the accident."

I looked up.

"Did you identify the driver?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because the camera footage was incomplete, and the police refused to reopen the case without additional evidence."

I stared at the photograph.

"You had all this, and you never told me."

"I had suspicions. Not proof."

"You could have told me that."

"Yes."

His admission silenced me.

Dante didn't try to defend himself. He didn't tell me I was being unreasonable or insist that he had acted in my best interests.

He simply stood there, accepting the anger I had every right to feel.

It made everything more complicated.

"I need to know whether you're protecting me," I said, "or protecting your organization."

He took a slow breath.

"Both, sometimes. I won't pretend otherwise."

The honesty hurt.

"But if the evidence proves someone in my organization helped cover up Michael's death, I will not protect them."

"Even if it's Victor?"

"Especially if it's Victor."

"Even if it's you?"

Dante held my gaze.

"Especially if it's me."

I wanted to believe him.

I wanted it so badly that I was afraid of what believing might cost.

My phone vibrated.

The unknown number had sent another message.

Ask him about the night of November fifth.

I stared at the screen.

Then I showed it to Dante.

His face went still.

"Who sent this?"

"I don't know."

"How long have you been receiving messages?"

"Since last night."

He looked at me sharply.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I was trying to decide whether you were part of the problem."

The words hurt him. I saw it.

But he didn't turn away.

"That's fair."

I blinked.

"What?"

"You're entitled to ask the question."

He placed his phone on the desk.

"The night Michael died, I received a call from Victor. He told me there had been an accident and that I should stay away from the investigation."

My heart pounded.

"What did you do?"

"I went to the scene."

"You went there?"

"By the time I arrived, the police had already taken the body away. I spoke to an officer I knew and asked him to preserve the evidence."

"And?"

"The following morning, the evidence had been transferred. The officer told me it was a routine decision."

I looked at the photograph again.

"Someone interfered."

"That's what I believed."

"And you never found out who?"

"No."

I sank into the chair beside the desk.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then I asked the question that had been haunting me since I read the messages.

"Did you have anything to do with my brother's death?"

Dante's expression changed.

Not anger.

Not disbelief.

Pain.

"No."

The answer came immediately.

"I didn't kill Michael. I didn't order anyone to hurt him. And if someone in my organization was involved, I will find out who they are."

I studied his face.

I had learned to recognize the difference between a man who was telling the truth and a man who was simply confident enough to lie convincingly.

Dante was frightened.

Not of me.

Of what I might discover.

And for the first time, I understood that he might be telling the truth while still keeping something important from me.

"Then help me find out what happened," I said.

"I will."

"Not because you love me. Not because you want to protect me. Because Michael deserves the truth."

Dante nodded.

"Agreed."

I stood and walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To speak to Victor Salerno."

"Elena—"

"You said you'd help me find the truth. Victor's name was in Michael's notebook, and he was frightened when I mentioned Northstar. I want to hear what he has to say."

Dante came around the desk.

"You're not going alone."

"I didn't ask to."

For a moment, he looked almost amused.

Then he took his jacket from the chair.

"Good. Because I was going to follow you anyway."

We found Victor at his private club on the Near North Side, a discreet establishment where Chicago's wealthiest men went to discuss business without the inconvenience of being overheard by people who didn't belong.

The dining room smelled of polished wood, expensive wine, and the faint sweetness of cigar smoke.

Victor sat at a table near the windows with a glass of sparkling water in front of him.

He looked unsurprised when we approached.

"Elena. Dante. What a pleasant surprise."

I sat opposite him.

"I have some questions."

Victor glanced at Dante.

"Of course you do."

"Did you know my brother was investigating Northstar?"

Victor lifted his glass.

"Michael was a curious young man."

"That's not an answer."

"He asked questions about several companies."

"Did you know he had evidence?"

Victor set the glass down.

"I knew he believed he had evidence."

"And what did you do with that information?"

"I advised him to be careful."

"Did you tell Marcus Bellamy?"

Victor's expression hardened.

"Be very careful with your accusations."

"I'm asking a question."

"And I'm reminding you that accusations have consequences."

Dante leaned forward.

"Answer her."

Victor looked at him.

For the first time, I saw genuine fear beneath the older man's practiced composure.

"I told Marcus that Michael was asking questions," he admitted.

My stomach dropped.

"Why?"

"Because I believed the matter could be resolved privately."

"Resolved how?"

Victor didn't answer.

I leaned closer.

"Did you know Michael was going to die?"

"No."

The answer came too quickly.

"Did you help cover it up?"

Victor's fingers tightened around his glass.

"No."

Dante watched him in silence.

I placed the photograph of Michael on the table.

Victor stared at it.

Then he looked up at me.

"You have no idea what your brother was involved in."

"Then explain it."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

Victor stood abruptly.

"This conversation is over."

Dante remained seated.

"Sit down, Victor."

The older man hesitated.

Then he slowly lowered himself back into the chair.

I had never seen anyone resist Dante Moretti and lose so completely without a single raised voice.

"Michael discovered that Northstar was being used to move money between legitimate companies and accounts controlled by several criminal organizations," Victor said. "Some of the transactions involved the Bellamys. Others involved people you should never have approached."

"Who?"

"I won't name them here."

"Why?"

"Because some of them are still alive."

Dante's expression darkened.

"Continue."

Victor looked toward the windows.

"Michael believed the transfers were connected to a larger operation. He thought your father had been coerced into signing documents that made the Russo family liable for debts it had never incurred."

"That's why he was investigating."

"Yes."

"And the marriage?"

Victor closed his eyes briefly.

"Marcus wanted control of the Russo family's remaining assets. The marriage would have given him a legal and social justification for consolidating the arrangement."

I felt sick.

"So I was part of the transaction."

Victor didn't deny it.

"Did you tell my father that Michael was in danger?"

"Yes."

"Did he listen?"

"He told me to stop discussing it."

I stood.

For a moment, I couldn't find the words.

Then I said, "If you knew what was happening, you could have helped him."

Victor's face crumpled.

"I was afraid."

"That doesn't bring him back."

"No."

I looked at Dante.

He was watching Victor with a cold, terrible stillness.

"Who was responsible for the accident?" Dante asked.

Victor shook his head.

"I don't know."

"Who ordered the evidence transferred?"

"I don't know."

Dante leaned forward.

"Then you know less than I hoped."

Victor looked at me.

"There is one person who may know what happened that night."

"Who?"

He hesitated.

Then he spoke a name.

"Arthur Bellamy."

Marcus's father.

The man whose company had appeared beside my father's name in Michael's records.

I felt the world narrowing around me.

"Where is he?"

Victor swallowed.

"He's been living outside Chicago for the past two years. He rarely appears in public."

"Why?"

"Because he's dying."

The words landed with unexpected weight.

Victor continued.

"Arthur has been suffering from a degenerative illness. His family has kept it quiet because his signature is still required for several major transactions."

Dante stood.

"Where is he staying?"

Victor hesitated again.

Then he gave us an address.

As we left the club, I felt Dante's hand settle against my back.

"You all right?" he asked.

"No."

He nodded.

"Neither am I."

I looked at him.

For the first time since reading the anonymous messages, I felt that we were standing on the same side of something larger than either of us.

But the questions remained.