Chapter 1 - The Little Girl With One Missing Sock Warned Chicago's Most Feared Mafia Boss About His Girlfriend—And the Photograph Hidden Beneath His Dinner Tray Made His Blood Run ColdThe first time five-year-old Ella Parker saved Dante Vale's life, she was missing one sock and hiding behind twelve thousand dollars' worth of white orchids.
“Uncle Dante.”
The whisper was so faint Dante almost mistook it for the rain tapping against the tall dining-room windows.
He stopped.
Outside, Chicago had disappeared beneath a storm. Rain streaked the glass in silver sheets, smearing the lights along Lake Michigan into trembling ribbons. Inside, the mansion was silent except for the low hum of the heating system and the distant footsteps of security men changing shifts.
Ten minutes earlier, Marcus Bell, Dante's security chief, had informed him that someone had been requesting restricted information about the mansion.
Guard rotations.
Camera blind spots.
Which bedroom Dante used when he slept alone.
That last detail had bothered him.
Now something moved beneath the orchids.
A tiny hand appeared.
“Come here,” Ella whispered urgently. “Before the bad lady sees you.”
Dante Vale had frightened judges, businessmen, debt collectors, and men who carried weapons beneath thousand-dollar jackets.
Yet he obeyed a five-year-old.
He crouched.
Ella Parker crawled from beneath the dining table wearing a pink cardigan, one striped sock, and a plastic detective badge clipped upside down to her shirt.
Her brown curls were tangled around her face.
She pressed one finger dramatically against her lips.
“I'm watching a bad lady.”
Dante's expression remained still.
“What bad lady?”
Ella pointed toward the silver serving tray at the other end of the table.
“Miss Bianca.”
For the first time that evening, something genuinely cold passed through him.
Bianca Russo.
The woman who had slept beside him for fourteen months.
The woman who had kissed him twenty minutes earlier before announcing she was going shopping with her sister.
“What did Bianca do?”
“She hid secret papers.”
“Where?”
Ella pointed again.
“Under there.”
Dante glanced toward the doorway.
“Maybe they're invitations.”
Ella frowned at him with the exhausted disappointment children reserved for adults who had failed to understand something obvious.
“Invitations don't need hiding.”
Fair point.
“She put them there three times,” Ella continued. “I counted.”
“Why were you watching her?”
“Because she looked at the doors first.”
Dante went very still.
Ella lowered her voice.
“And yesterday she talked to a man on her phone.”
“What did she say?”
“She said you wouldn't be here much longer.”
His eyes hardened.
“Exactly those words?”
Ella nodded.
“She said, ‘He won't be here much longer, and then everything belongs to us.’”
For twenty years, Dante had survived by noticing what other people missed.
A pause before an answer.
A hand moving too close to a coat pocket.
A man suddenly becoming generous.
A woman suddenly becoming affectionate.
But he had missed this.
Ella tugged his sleeve.
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“You have the mad face.”
Dante almost smiled.
“Show me the papers.”
He lifted the silver tray.
There were three envelopes beneath it.
The first contained photographs.
His bedroom window.
The underground garage.
The side entrance used by his private driver.
A photograph of Dante himself leaving a restaurant.
Red circles had been drawn around doors, windows, and security cameras.
The second envelope contained handwritten schedules.
Marcus's name appeared beside several notes.
Tuesday, 11:15.
South hall.
Two guards.
Seven-minute gap.
The third contained only one photograph.
Dante's bed.
Someone had photographed it through the bedroom window.
Across the bottom were four handwritten words.
Tomorrow night. No mistakes.
For the first time in years, Dante felt something dangerously close to fear.
Not for himself.
He looked down at Ella.
She was still standing beside him, holding her ridiculous plastic detective badge.
Whoever had hidden those papers might eventually realize a five-year-old had seen them.
“Ella.”
“Yes?”
“Did Bianca see you?”
“I don't think so.”
“Did anyone else?”
She hesitated.
Dante's stomach tightened.
“Ella.”
“Mr. Sal saw me in the hallway.”
Salvatore Russo.
Bianca's older brother.
Dante's closest friend since childhood.
The man who had stood beside Dante at his father's funeral.
The man Dante had trusted with the names of every person who could hurt him.
Dante rose.
“Marcus.”
The security chief appeared almost immediately.
“Boss?”
“Lock the house.”
Marcus saw Dante's face and stopped asking questions.
“Quietly,” Dante added. “No alarms.”
“Understood.”
“And bring Grace Parker upstairs.”
Ella brightened.
“Mommy's going to be mad because I left the laundry room.”
Dante looked at the photographs again.
“No, sweetheart.”
His voice changed.
“Your mother is going to be very glad you did.”
Grace Parker knew something was wrong the moment she saw two armed men outside Dante Vale's private dining room.
She had worked at the mansion for two years, first cleaning guest rooms, then supervising housekeeping after the previous manager retired.
She had learned several rules.
Never interrupt Dante during a meeting.
Never ask why certain visitors entered through the garage.
Never repeat anything overheard behind closed doors.
And when security doubled without warning, something terrible had happened.
She hurried into the dining room.
“Ella.”
Her daughter sat in an enormous leather chair, legs swinging.
“Mommy!”
Grace crossed the room quickly.
“I told you not to wander upstairs.”
“I was doing detective work.”
“Of course you were.”
Grace closed her eyes.
Six weeks earlier, Ella had discovered an old detective movie on television. Since then, she had investigated missing cookies, a gardener's gloves, and what she called the Case of the Mysterious Bathroom Noise.
The bathroom noise had been plumbing.
Dante stood beside the windows holding a photograph.
He wasn't smiling.
Grace immediately moved between him and Ella.
“If she broke something, take it from my paycheck.”
Dante looked at her.
“Your daughter hasn't broken anything.”
“Then why are there men with guns outside?”
“Because she may have saved my life.”
Grace stopped breathing.
Dante placed the photograph on the table.
She looked down.
Bedroom.
Window.
Red circle.
Security notes.
Tomorrow night.
Her skin lost its color.
“Who left this?”
“Someone Ella recognized.”
Grace looked at her daughter.
“Who?”
Ella answered before Dante could.
“Miss Bianca.”
Grace's face changed.
Dante saw it.
“You're not surprised.”
“I'm surprised.”
“But not completely.”
Grace said nothing.
“Mrs. Parker.”
She hated when he used that calm voice.
Three weeks earlier, Bianca had accused a young kitchen assistant named Allison of stealing an emerald bracelet.
The girl cried for an hour.
She was fired before dinner.
The following morning, Grace had found Bianca's bracelet beneath a cosmetics bag in Bianca's own dressing room.
Grace had told Bianca.
Bianca had looked at her and said, “Then I suppose Allison should have been more careful about inspiring suspicion.”
The girl had not been rehired.
Grace had wanted to tell Dante.
The kitchen manager warned her not to.
People who embarrassed Bianca Russo usually disappeared from the Vale household.
Sometimes only from the payroll.
Sometimes from Chicago.
Grace had a daughter to feed.
So she had remained silent.
“I should have told you something,” she said.
Dante listened without interruption.
When she finished, his jaw was tight.
“Why wasn't I informed?”
Grace gave him a tired look.
“You really want the answer?”
“Yes.”
“Because everyone in this house knows exactly how powerful your girlfriend's family is.”
“Not more powerful than me.”
“That doesn't make people less afraid.”
Dante stared at her.
Grace held his gaze.
She had never been impressed by expensive suits or whispered reputations. Grief had burned too much fear out of her.
Ella tugged Dante's sleeve.
“Uncle Dante?”
He looked down.
“Are you going to put Miss Bianca in timeout?”
Grace nearly choked.
Dante's mouth twitched.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because grown-ups who do dangerous things need more than a timeout.”
Ella considered this.
“Like no dessert for a whole week?”
Dante glanced at Grace.
“Something like that.”
Grace didn't laugh.
She was staring at the photographs again.
Then she noticed something Dante had overlooked.
A small reflection in the bedroom window.
She leaned forward.
“Wait.”
Dante turned.
“What?”
Grace pointed toward the lower corner of the photograph.
“That's not your bedroom.”
Dante frowned.
“Of course it is.”
“No.”
She looked up.
“I clean your bedroom every morning. The curtains are different.”
Dante examined the photograph.
The bed was identical.
The lamps were identical.
Even the framed painting above the headboard appeared to match.
But Grace was right.
The curtains were wrong.
His bedroom had charcoal-gray curtains.
The photograph showed dark green velvet.
Marcus stepped closer.
“Could be an older picture.”
Grace shook her head.
“The painting was installed last month.”
Dante felt the first real crack in his understanding of what he was looking at.
“Then where was this taken?”
Grace studied the image.
“There are guest suites on the west wing with green curtains.”
Marcus nodded.
“Four of them.”
Dante looked at him.
“Check them.”
Marcus spoke into his radio.
Grace reached for Ella's hand.
“Come on, sweetheart. We're going downstairs.”
Ella resisted.
“But my case isn't finished.”
“It is for tonight.”
“No, Mommy. The bad lady has a helper.”
Every adult in the room stopped.
Dante crouched again.
“What helper, Ella?”
The little girl looked toward the hallway.
“The man with the shiny shoes.”
Marcus exchanged a glance with Dante.
Half the men in the house wore polished leather shoes.
“That doesn't narrow it down,” Marcus said.
Ella frowned.
“He smells like oranges.”
Grace's face went pale.
Dante noticed.
“What?”
She swallowed.
“Salvatore Russo wears orange-blossom cologne.”
Dante slowly stood.
For a moment, the room seemed to lose all its warmth.
Sal.
His oldest friend.
The boy who had once hidden Dante in a church basement after a rival family attacked their neighborhood.
The man who had carried Dante's father to the hospital after the shooting that killed him.
The man who had sworn, standing over a grave, that Dante would never face the world alone.
Dante looked at Marcus.
“Where is Salvatore?”
Marcus checked his phone.
“He left forty minutes ago.”
“With Bianca?”
“No. Separate vehicles.”
“Find out where they went.”
Marcus nodded.
“And boss?”
Dante turned.
“Something else.”
“What?”
“Salvatore requested a temporary security override this afternoon.”
Dante felt his blood turn cold.
“For what?”
Marcus hesitated.
“He said he was arranging a private anniversary surprise for you and Bianca.”
Silence settled over the room.
Ella looked from one adult to another.
Then whispered, “That's a bad surprise.”
Nobody disagreed.
Grace wanted to take Ella home immediately.
Dante refused.
Not harshly.
But firmly enough that she understood he wasn't making a suggestion.
“The estate is secure,” he said. “Your apartment isn't.”
Grace crossed her arms.
“You can't keep us here.”
“No.”
Dante met her eyes.
“But I can ask you to stay until I know who saw your daughter.”
Grace looked down at Ella.
The little girl had fallen asleep in the leather chair, her detective badge still attached to her cardigan.
She looked impossibly small.
Grace's anger faltered.
Dante lowered his voice.
“Mrs. Parker, I know what people say about me.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know why I don't like having my daughter anywhere near your business.”
He looked at Ella.
“I do.”
Grace studied him.
“She's five.”
“I know.”
“She still thinks the moon follows our car.”
Dante's expression softened.
“I remember thinking that.”
Grace blinked.
For one strange moment, she saw not the feared man who controlled half the city's underground business, but someone who had once been a little boy.
Someone who might have believed ordinary things before life taught him otherwise.
She shook the thought away.
“I need to call my sister.”
“Use my office.”
“I need to tell her where we are.”
“Of course.”
Grace looked surprised.
Dante noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
She hesitated.
“I expected you to tell me what I was allowed to say.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“I'm beginning to understand that people in this house expect the worst of me.”
Grace didn't answer.
Because the truth was that sometimes the worst had been exactly what they received.
Marcus returned twenty minutes later.
His expression was grim.
“Boss, we checked the west-wing suites.”
Dante stood.
“And?”
“One room was recently staged.”
“Staged?”
“Furniture moved. Bedding replaced. Curtains installed.”
Dante's eyes narrowed.
“Which room?”
“Suite Four.”
Grace looked up.
“That's the room Bianca told housekeeping not to enter.”
Dante turned toward her.
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
“Why?”
“She said she was planning a surprise.”
Dante almost laughed.
A surprise.
The word was becoming poisonous.
Marcus continued.
“We found a camera mount outside the window.”
Dante looked at the photograph again.
His bed.
His bedroom furniture.
But not his room.
Someone had recreated his sleeping quarters in a guest suite.
Why?
To rehearse an attack?
To mislead whoever would carry it out?
Or to create evidence of something that hadn't happened yet?
He looked at Marcus.
“Search every inch of that suite.”
“Already underway.”
“And no one touches anything without documenting it.”
Marcus nodded.
Then hesitated.
“There's something else.”
Dante felt his patience thinning.
“What?”
“Bianca's phone is off.”
“Salvatore?”
“Also off.”
Dante looked toward the rain-streaked windows.
Two people he trusted.
Both missing.
Both connected to a plan that appeared to involve his death.
He had survived ambushes, betrayals, and wars between families.
But this felt different.
Because the danger hadn't come through the front gate.
He had invited it into his home.
He had kissed it goodnight.
At midnight, Ella woke crying.
Grace was sitting beside her in a guest bedroom.
The little girl rubbed her eyes.
“Mommy?”
“I'm here.”
“Did the bad lady come back?”
“No, sweetheart.”
Ella looked frightened.
“I didn't mean to make trouble.”
Grace's heart broke.
She pulled her daughter close.
“You didn't make trouble.”
“Uncle Dante looked sad.”
Grace stroked her curls.
“He has a lot to think about.”
Ella was quiet.
Then she whispered, “Do bad people know they're bad?”
Grace didn't know how to answer.
She thought about Bianca.
About Salvatore.
About the way people in the mansion looked away when someone powerful entered a room.
“Sometimes,” she said carefully. “Sometimes they tell themselves they're doing the right thing.”
Ella frowned.
“But if you hurt people, that's not right.”
Grace kissed her forehead.
“No, baby. It isn't.”
Ella rested her head against her mother's shoulder.
“Then why do grown-ups forget?”
Grace closed her eyes.
Because that was the question she had been asking herself for years.
Across the hall, Dante sat alone in his office.
A glass of whiskey stood untouched beside him.
On his desk lay the three envelopes.
He had examined them repeatedly.
The photographs.
The schedules.
The strange handwriting.
And the final message.
Tomorrow night. No mistakes.
He couldn't stop thinking about Salvatore.
They had met at thirteen.
Dante's father had been a feared man.
Salvatore's father had been his lieutenant.
Their childhood had been built around whispered conversations, sudden moves, and the knowledge that a car slowing outside the wrong house could mean death.
They had survived it together.
Or so Dante had believed.
His phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
You should have married Bianca when you had the chance.
Dante stared at it.
A second message appeared.
Some people don't appreciate being kept waiting.
Then a photograph arrived.
It showed Ella Parker.
Standing outside her school.
Taken that morning.
Dante rose so abruptly his chair struck the wall.
He called Marcus.
“Get upstairs. Now.”
Grace opened the guest-room door when she heard hurried footsteps.
Marcus stood outside with two security officers.
His face was serious.
“Mrs. Parker, I need you and Ella to come with me.”
Grace tightened her grip on the door.
“Why?”
“We're moving you to a more secure part of the house.”
“What's happened?”
Marcus hesitated.
Then Dante appeared behind him.
Grace looked at his face.
She knew.
Something had happened to Ella.
“What is it?”
Dante held out his phone.
Grace looked down.
The photograph.
Her daughter outside school.
Her stomach dropped.
“No.”
Dante said nothing.
Grace stared at the screen.
“No, no, no.”
She looked up.
“Who took that?”
“We don't know yet.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Someone has been watching her?”
Dante nodded.
Grace stepped back.
For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
Ella was five.
Five years old.
She liked strawberry pancakes and yellow rain boots.
She slept with a stuffed rabbit named Mr. Buttons.
She had never hurt anyone.
And now someone had photographed her outside school because she'd seen something she wasn't supposed to see.
Grace looked at Dante.
“This is your world.”
The words struck harder than he expected.
She continued.
“Your enemies. Your secrets. Your people.”
Her voice broke.
“And my daughter is in danger because she happened to notice something.”
Dante didn't defend himself.
He looked at the photograph.
Then at Grace.
“You're right.”
She stared at him.
He continued.
“I can't undo what's happened. But I can make sure she isn't left unprotected.”
Grace shook her head.
“Protection isn't enough.”
Dante looked at her.
“What do you want me to do?”
She swallowed.
“I want you to make sure this ends.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he nodded.
“I will.”
They moved Grace and Ella into a secure apartment connected to the mansion's inner courtyard.
It had reinforced doors, independent cameras, and a private entrance.
Grace hated every inch of it.
The polished floors.
The expensive furniture.
The windows that didn't open.
It felt like a beautiful cage.
Ella, however, was fascinated by the enormous bathtub.
“Mommy, it's like a swimming pool.”
Grace managed a smile.
“Don't get any ideas.”
Dante appeared in the doorway carrying a small paper bag.
Ella brightened.
“Uncle Dante!”
He crouched.
“I brought you something.”
She looked suspicious.
“Is it evidence?”
“Not exactly.”
He opened the bag.
Inside was a pair of striped socks.
Pink and yellow.
With tiny detective magnifying glasses printed on them.
Ella gasped.
“Detective socks!”
Dante nodded solemnly.
“A detective should always have both socks.”
Ella threw her arms around his neck.
Dante froze.
He had been hugged by women who wanted diamonds.
By men celebrating business deals.
By relatives who expected favors.
But this was different.
A child hugging him because he'd brought her socks.
He slowly returned the embrace.
Grace watched from the doorway.
Something in her expression softened.
Only slightly.
But Dante noticed.
Ella pulled back.
“Do you have a detective badge?”
“No.”
She looked horrified.
“Then how do people know you're important?”
Dante almost smiled.
“Good question.”
Ella removed her plastic badge.
Held it out.
“You can borrow mine.”
He stared at it.
The badge was scratched.
The clip was bent.
One corner had been chewed.
It was probably worth less than a dollar.
Dante accepted it as though she were handing him a priceless heirloom.
“Thank you.”
Ella nodded.
“Now you can help with the case.”
At two in the morning, Marcus found Dante in the surveillance room.
The plastic detective badge was clipped to his suit jacket.
Marcus stopped.
Looked at it.
Then wisely said nothing.
Dante pointed toward a monitor.
“Play the west-wing footage again.”
Marcus did.
The screen showed Bianca entering Suite Four.
She carried a small black bag.
A few minutes later, Salvatore appeared.
They spoke.
Then Bianca handed him something.
Marcus paused the video.
Dante leaned forward.
“What is that?”
Marcus enlarged the image.
A small metal object.
A key.
Dante frowned.
“Not a house key.”
Marcus studied it.
“Could be a safe-deposit key.”
Dante's expression changed.
“Or a storage locker.”
He looked at the timestamp.
“Where did Sal go afterward?”
Marcus switched cameras.
They watched Salvatore walk down the corridor.
Enter the underground garage.
Approach a black sedan.
Then stop.
Someone was waiting beside the vehicle.
A woman.
Dark coat.
Dark hair.
Her face hidden from the camera.
Dante leaned forward.
“Who is she?”
Marcus shook his head.
“Unknown.”
The woman handed Salvatore a folder.
He opened it.
Looked inside.
Then seemed to lose his balance.
He grabbed the side of the car.
Dante's eyes narrowed.
“What's in that folder?”
Marcus couldn't answer.
The woman stepped closer.
For a moment, the camera caught her face.
Dante stopped breathing.
He reached for the monitor.
“Freeze it.”
Marcus obeyed.
The image sharpened.
The woman turned slightly.
Her features were unmistakable.
Dante stared.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
“No.”
Marcus looked at him.
“Boss?”
Dante didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because the woman standing beside Salvatore's car was someone Dante had buried eleven years earlier.
Someone whose funeral he had paid for.
Someone whose death had changed the course of his life.
His younger sister.
Isabella Vale.
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Marcus looked from the monitor to Dante.
“That's impossible.”
Dante's face had gone pale.
He stared at the screen.
Isabella.
Her dark hair.
Her sharp cheekbones.
The small scar above her left eyebrow.
He remembered that scar.
She had gotten it at nine years old, falling from a bicycle while trying to impress the neighborhood boys.
Dante had carried her home.
She had cried all the way.
Then begged him not to tell their father.
He had promised.
He had always promised to protect her.
And eleven years ago, he had failed.
At least, that was what he'd believed.
Isabella had supposedly died in a car accident outside Milwaukee.
Her vehicle was found burned.
Her belongings were recovered.
A body was identified.
Dante had stood beside her grave in the rain.
He remembered the weight of the coffin being lowered.
He remembered Salvatore holding his shoulder.
He remembered Bianca's father, then still alive, telling him that grief was a weakness enemies could exploit.
He remembered becoming colder afterward.
Harder.
More dangerous.
Because if he couldn't save the people he loved, he could at least make sure nobody ever saw him break again.
Now Isabella was standing on a surveillance screen.
Alive.
Dante slowly sat down.
Marcus looked frightened.
Not of an enemy.
Of what this revelation might do to his boss.
“Dante.”
It was the first time he'd used his first name in years.
Dante didn't seem to hear him.
He reached toward the monitor.
His fingers stopped just short of the glass.
“Bella.”
His voice broke.
Marcus looked away.
Dante stared at the woman.
Then at Salvatore.
His oldest friend.
The man who had helped him bury his sister.
The man who had been standing beside her in the garage hours earlier.
A terrible understanding began to form.
Salvatore hadn't merely betrayed Dante recently.
He had been keeping secrets for more than a decade.
Dante rose.
His expression changed.
The grief remained.
But something colder moved beneath it.
“Find her.”
Marcus nodded.
“Alive?”
Dante turned.
The question seemed to offend him.
“She's my sister.”
Marcus lowered his eyes.
“Understood.”
Dante looked back at the screen.
Then whispered, “And find out why Salvatore let me believe she was dead.”
At dawn, Grace found Dante standing alone in the courtyard.
The rain had stopped.
A pale gray sky stretched above the mansion.
He wore no coat.
His hands rested on the stone railing.
Grace approached quietly.
“Mr. Vale?”
He didn't turn.
“You should be asleep.”
“So should you.”
He almost smiled.
Grace hesitated.
“Ella's okay.”
Dante nodded.
“Good.”
“She wanted me to tell you she found her missing sock.”
He looked toward her.
“Where was it?”
“In the laundry basket.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Case closed.”
Grace studied him.
Something was wrong.
Not merely anger.
Not merely fear.
He looked devastated.
She stepped closer.
“Did something happen?”
Dante looked toward the lake.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he asked, “Have you ever buried someone and wished you could have one more conversation with them?”
Grace's expression changed.
Her husband, Daniel Parker, had died three years earlier.
A construction accident.
One phone call.
One hospital corridor.
One life divided into before and after.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Dante nodded.
“Then you know.”
Grace looked at him.
“Know what?”
He swallowed.
“What it feels like to discover you never really got to say goodbye.”
She waited.
Dante turned toward her.
“My sister died eleven years ago.”
Grace's face softened.
“I'm sorry.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
She frowned.
He looked directly into her eyes.
“She's alive.”
Grace stopped breathing.
Dante continued.
“And I think the people planning to kill me are the same people who made her disappear.”
For a moment, Grace couldn't speak.
Then she asked the only question that mattered.
“Does she know you're looking for her?”
Dante stared toward the lake.
“I don't know.”
Grace stepped closer.
“Then find her.”
He looked at her.
She continued.
“But don't let revenge decide what happens when you do.”
Dante's expression hardened.
“You don't know what they've done.”
“No.”
Grace held his gaze.
“But I know what it feels like to lose someone.”
Her voice softened.
“And I know that if you have a chance to get them back, you shouldn't waste it becoming the worst version of yourself.”
Dante looked away.
For the first time in years, he had no answer.
Inside the secure apartment, Ella sat at the breakfast table drawing a picture.
Three stick figures stood beneath a yellow sun.
One was small.
One had curly hair.
One wore a black suit.
Above them, in crooked purple letters, she had written:
THE GOOD GUYS.
Grace entered.
“What are you drawing?”
Ella smiled.
“Me, you, and Uncle Dante.”
Grace looked at the picture.
Her throat tightened.
Ella pointed to the figure in the black suit.
“He's sad.”
Grace sat beside her.
“Why do you think that?”
Ella shrugged.
“Because he doesn't have anyone to hold his hand.”
Grace looked toward the courtyard.
Through the window, she could see Dante standing alone.
Ella continued.
“Maybe he forgot how.”
Grace kissed her daughter's forehead.
“Maybe.”
Ella picked up a yellow crayon.
“Then we can teach him.”
Grace smiled sadly.
She had no idea how close her daughter had come to uncovering something far more dangerous than a murder plot.
Because at that very moment, Dante's phone vibrated.
A new message appeared.
Unknown number.
No greeting.
No explanation.
Only a photograph.
Isabella Vale.
Standing in a small room.
Holding a little boy who looked no older than six.
On the back wall hung a framed photograph of Dante himself.
Beneath the image were six words.
She never stopped waiting for you.
Dante stared at the child.
The boy had dark hair.
Gray eyes.
And a familiar expression Dante had seen in old family photographs.
His father's expression.
Then another message appeared.
Ask Salvatore whose son he is.
Dante's hands began shaking.
For eleven years, he had mourned a sister who was still alive.
Now he was looking at a child who might carry his family's blood.
And the man he had trusted most in the world appeared to know the truth.
Dante looked toward the secure apartment.
Ella was laughing at something Grace had said.
Five years old.
One missing sock.
A plastic detective badge.
She had warned him about a bad woman.
But she had uncovered the first piece of a secret that could destroy everything he thought he knew about his family.
Dante picked up his phone.
Called Marcus.
May you like
And spoke four words.
“Bring Salvatore to me.”
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