Chapter 2 - The Mafia Boss Took Her to His Mansion at Midnight—But the Photograph Hidden in His Private Office Made Her Scream
"My father is dead."
The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.
Dante Vancel looked at me from across the limousine.
His gray eyes narrowed.
"Elena?"
I pressed the phone harder against my ear.
"That isn't possible. My father died eleven years ago."
The nurse on the other end hesitated.
"Miss Vance, I understand you're upset. The man didn't enter your brother's room. Security stopped him before he reached the pediatric wing."
"What was his name?"
Another pause.
"Richard Vance."
My stomach dropped.
Richard Vance.
My father's name.
The name written on his death certificate.
The name engraved on a modest headstone in Queens.
The name Toby whispered whenever he asked why other children had fathers and he didn't.
I swallowed.
"Did you see him?"
"No, ma'am. I received the information from security."
"Then how do you know he was my father?"
"He presented identification."
My hands began trembling.
"Was it real?"
"That hasn't been established."
Dante extended his hand.
"May I?"
I stared at him.
He nodded toward the phone.
I hesitated.
Then handed it over.
"This is Dante Vancel," he said.
The nurse fell silent.
"Please connect me with the hospital's security supervisor."
His voice remained calm.
But I could see the tension in his jaw.
While he spoke, I stared through the window at Manhattan's passing lights.
My father had died in a car accident when I was twelve.
At least, that was what my mother had told me.
I remembered the funeral.
The rain.
The black umbrellas.
The closed casket.
I remembered my mother standing beside the grave, holding Toby against her chest.
And I remembered one strange thing.
She hadn't cried.
Not once.
At the time, I thought grief had made her numb.
Now, I wasn't sure.
Dante ended the call.
"The man used forged identification."
I exhaled shakily.
"So it wasn't my father?"
"We don't know who it was."
"But Toby is safe?"
"Yes. His medical team has confirmed that."
I covered my face.
"Why is this happening?"
Dante leaned forward.
"Because someone believes you have something they want."
I lowered my hands.
"I don't have anything."
"Are you certain?"
I almost laughed.
I lived in a cramped apartment.
I owned two pairs of jeans, three work uniforms, and a secondhand laptop.
I had seventeen dollars in my checking account.
"Look at me, Mr. Vancel. Do I look like someone hiding a fortune?"
"No."
"Then what could anyone possibly want?"
His eyes softened.
"Something your mother left behind."
I stared.
"My mother left us debts."
"She left more than that."
"Then tell me."
Dante glanced at the photograph in my lap.
"Not here."
I shook my head.
"No more mysterious answers."
"Elena—"
"You knew my mother's name. You knew about Toby. You knew someone would come after him. And now you're telling me my dead father might not be dead?"
"I never said that."
"Then stop talking like every sentence is a puzzle!"
For the first time, Dante looked genuinely surprised.
Nobody shouted at him.
I knew that.
Men twice my size probably lowered their eyes when he entered a room.
But I was too frightened to care.
He remained silent for several seconds.
Then he nodded.
"You're right."
I blinked.
"What?"
"You deserve answers."
He reached for his phone.
"First, we're going to the hospital. You'll see Toby. Then, if you agree, I'll show you what I know."
I looked at him suspiciously.
"Why would you help us?"
His expression changed.
"Because I failed someone once."
"Who?"
"Your mother."
The hospital smelled of disinfectant and coffee.
I practically ran through the corridors.
Dante followed with two bodyguards, but he kept his distance.
When I reached Toby's room, my brother was asleep.
His small chest rose and fell beneath a blue blanket.
A monitor beeped steadily beside him.
I touched his cheek.
Warm.
Alive.
Safe.
For the moment.
I sat beside him and cried silently.
A few minutes later, his cardiologist, Dr. Amelia Hart, entered.
She was a kind woman in her forties who had spent months explaining complicated medical information in language I could understand.
"Elena."
I stood.
"Is he okay?"
"He's stable."
"Someone tried to take him."
"Security prevented an unauthorized transfer. His treatment hasn't been interrupted."
I glanced toward Dante.
He stood near the doorway, speaking quietly with a hospital administrator.
Dr. Hart lowered her voice.
"There's something else we need to discuss."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"Toby's latest imaging shows changes in his cardiac function. We don't want to delay his operation."
"How long?"
"We're working toward the earliest medically appropriate date. Our surgical team is reviewing the plan."
I swallowed.
"And the money?"
Dr. Hart hesitated.
"The financial office is still processing the assistance applications."
I looked down.
Of course.
Always another application.
Another form.
Another waiting list.
Another reminder that saving my brother required money I didn't have.
Then Dante spoke from the doorway.
"His treatment won't be delayed because of payment."
I turned.
Dr. Hart looked surprised.
Dante approached.
"I've spoken with the hospital's financial team. My foundation can provide financial assistance through the appropriate channels."
I stared at him.
"You can't just—"
"Yes," he said quietly. "I can offer to cover the remaining eligible expenses."
My throat closed.
"Why?"
"Because your brother deserves care."
I shook my head.
"Nothing is free."
Dante held my gaze.
"This is."
I wanted to believe him.
God help me, I wanted to.
But men like Dante Vancel didn't become powerful by giving things away.
"What's the catch?"
"There isn't one."
"Then why me?"
He looked at Toby.
For a brief second, something almost painful crossed his face.
"Because he reminds me of someone."
"Who?"
Dante didn't answer.
Instead, he turned toward the doctor.
"Please continue whatever treatment you believe is medically necessary. My involvement doesn't change your decisions."
Dr. Hart nodded.
"I appreciate that."
When she left, Toby stirred.
"Ellie?"
I rushed to his bedside.
"Hey, superhero."
He blinked sleepily.
"Why are you crying?"
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
I wiped my cheeks.
"Just tired."
Then Toby noticed Dante.
His eyes widened.
"Whoa."
Dante stood motionless.
Toby pointed.
"Are you a basketball player?"
For the first time that night, Dante smiled.
A real smile.
Small.
Unexpected.
"No."
"Then why are you so tall?"
"Bad luck."
Toby giggled.
I stared.
The terrifying mafia boss had just made my brother laugh.
"What's your name?" Toby asked.
"Dante."
"Like the guy in my comic book?"
"Maybe."
"Do you have superpowers?"
Dante considered the question.
"Not the useful kind."
Toby looked disappointed.
"Can you fly?"
"No."
"Turn invisible?"
"No."
"Read minds?"
Dante glanced at me.
"Occasionally."
I rolled my eyes.
Toby laughed again.
Then he noticed Dante's tattooed hand.
"Does that hurt?"
"Not anymore."
"Can I see?"
Dante approached slowly.
He held out his hand.
Toby traced the outline of the black serpent.
"Cool."
Then my brother said something that made Dante freeze.
"My daddy had a snake tattoo too."
Silence.
I stared at Toby.
"What?"
He looked at me innocently.
"Daddy."
"Toby, you never met Daddy. You were a baby when he died."
"I know."
"Then how do you know about his tattoo?"
Toby shrugged.
"Mommy showed me."
My heart stopped.
"Our mother?"
He nodded.
"Before she went to heaven."
I sat down.
"Toby, Mom died when you were four. Do you remember that?"
"A little."
"What did she show you?"
"A picture."
"What picture?"
He frowned, trying to remember.
"She said Daddy had a snake on his arm. And she told me never to tell strangers."
Dante slowly withdrew his hand.
His face had gone pale.
I turned toward him.
"What does that mean?"
He looked at me.
And for the first time, I saw something I never expected in his eyes.
Fear.
At two thirty in the morning, Toby was sleeping again.
Two hospital security officers were stationed outside the pediatric wing.
Dante had arranged for his own security team to coordinate with the hospital, but the hospital remained in charge of access to patients.
I stood beside the vending machines with a paper cup of coffee.
Dante approached.
"You should rest."
I laughed bitterly.
"That's funny."
"Elena."
"Don't."
He stopped.
I looked up.
"My brother just described a tattoo that looks exactly like yours. Someone used my dead father's name to get into the hospital. And you keep acting like you know why."
Dante said nothing.
I stepped closer.
"Tell me the truth."
His jaw tightened.
"Your mother worked for my father."
I stared.
"You said that already."
"She was his private financial archivist."
I frowned.
"My mother barely finished high school."
"She was exceptionally intelligent."
"She cleaned offices."
"That was her cover."
My stomach twisted.
"Cover for what?"
Dante looked toward the empty corridor.
"My father controlled several legitimate businesses and a criminal organization. Your mother managed records that connected both."
I shook my head.
"No."
"She discovered money moving through accounts that shouldn't have existed."
"What kind of money?"
"Money stolen from families. Insurance fraud. Medical charities. Companies used to hide illegal payments."
My mouth went dry.
"Medical charities?"
Dante nodded.
"One of them was supposed to fund treatment for children with serious illnesses."
I thought of Toby.
His hospital bills.
Our endless financial struggles.
"You're telling me my mother stole money?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"She discovered who did."
I stared at him.
"And?"
"She copied the evidence."
"Where is it?"
"That's what everyone wants to know."
I felt dizzy.
"Everyone?"
Dante's eyes hardened.
"My father's former associates. A man named Victor Sloane. And someone inside my own organization."
I swallowed.
"Why didn't my mother go to the police?"
"She tried."
"What happened?"
"Someone warned my father."
My heart pounded.
"And then?"
Dante looked away.
"Your family disappeared."
I stared.
"We didn't disappear."
"You changed addresses. Your mother changed jobs. Your father supposedly died."
I felt cold.
"Supposedly?"
Dante faced me.
"Elena, I don't know whether Richard Vance died in that accident."
My coffee cup slipped from my hand.
It hit the floor.
Hot liquid splashed across the tiles.
I barely noticed.
"You're lying."
"I wish I were."
I stepped backward.
"No."
"Your father's body was never independently identified by your mother."
I shook my head.
"I was at his funeral."
"I know."
"I saw his coffin."
"I know."
"Then stop!"
My voice echoed through the corridor.
Dante remained still.
Tears burned my eyes.
"You don't get to walk into my life and rewrite everything I've ever known."
"You're right."
"You don't get to make my mother a criminal and my father a ghost."
"I didn't say she was a criminal."
"Then what are you saying?"
He looked at me for a long moment.
"That your mother may have died protecting you from people who are still alive."
At four in the morning, Dante offered to take me home.
I refused.
I couldn't imagine sleeping.
Instead, I asked him one question.
"Where is the evidence?"
He hesitated.
"Some of it is at my house."
"Then take me there."
"Elena—"
"You said I deserve answers."
He studied me.
Then nodded.
"All right."
The Vancel estate stood behind iron gates on a secluded property north of Manhattan.
It looked less like a home and more like a palace.
Massive stone columns.
Tall windows glowing with warm golden light.
Fountains surrounded by perfectly trimmed gardens.
A circular driveway paved with dark granite.
Inside, polished marble floors reflected enormous chandeliers.
Gold-trimmed staircases curved toward the upper floors.
Oil paintings lined the walls.
Everything smelled of expensive wood, fresh flowers, and old money.
I felt painfully out of place in my black maid's uniform.
A woman in a tailored navy suit approached.
"Mr. Vancel."
"Margaret."
Her eyes moved toward me.
She looked surprised but remained polite.
"Would you like refreshments?"
"Tea for Miss Vance. And please prepare a guest room in case she wants to rest."
I immediately spoke.
"I'm not staying."
Dante nodded.
"Then the room won't be needed."
Margaret smiled faintly.
"Of course."
She disappeared.
I stared at the staircase.
"How many people live here?"
"Too many."
"That isn't an answer."
"It's the only honest one I have."
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Dante led me down a quiet hallway.
We stopped outside two enormous wooden doors.
He entered a code.
The locks clicked.
Inside was a private office.
Dark mahogany shelves covered the walls.
A fireplace burned beneath a marble mantel.
An enormous desk stood before floor-to-ceiling windows.
And above the fireplace hung a portrait.
I stopped breathing.
The painting showed Dante as a young man.
Standing beside an older gentleman with silver hair.
Both wore black suits.
Both had piercing gray eyes.
And both had the same black serpent tattoo on their hands.
"Your father?" I whispered.
Dante nodded.
"Alessandro Vancel."
I moved closer.
Something about the older man's face felt familiar.
Not because I had seen him before.
Because I had seen his photograph.
Somewhere.
Years ago.
I closed my eyes.
Then remembered.
My mother's jewelry box.
A small photograph hidden beneath its velvet lining.
A man with silver hair.
Standing beside my father.
I opened my eyes.
"Dante."
He turned.
"My mother had a picture of him."
His expression sharpened.
"Where?"
"In her jewelry box."
"Do you still have it?"
I nodded.
"At my apartment."
Dante walked toward his desk.
He unlocked a drawer.
Inside was a leather folder.
He removed several photographs and placed them on the desk.
"Look carefully."
I approached.
The first showed my mother standing outside an office building.
The second showed a group of men at a formal dinner.
The third showed my father.
Alive.
Smiling.
Standing beside Alessandro Vancel.
My knees nearly buckled.
"That's him."
Dante watched me.
"Your father?"
I nodded.
Tears filled my eyes.
"That's my dad."
I touched the photograph.
He looked younger than I remembered.
His dark hair was neatly combed.
His smile was warm.
And on his right forearm, partly visible beneath his rolled-up sleeve, was a tattoo.
A black serpent.
Just like Dante's.
I turned slowly.
"Why?"
Dante's face tightened.
"The serpent was used by members of my father's inner circle."
"My father was mafia?"
"He worked with my father."
"What did he do?"
Dante hesitated.
Then said, "He handled sensitive deliveries."
I stared.
"Deliveries of what?"
"Documents. Money. Occasionally things he shouldn't have agreed to carry."
My stomach turned.
I looked back at the photograph.
Then noticed something else.
A fourth person stood behind the group.
A woman.
Blonde.
Beautiful.
Wearing a red dress.
I leaned closer.
"Who is she?"
Dante followed my gaze.
His expression darkened.
"Isabella Sloane."
"Who?"
"Victor Sloane's daughter."
I frowned.
"The man hunting us?"
"Yes."
I stared at the photograph.
Then suddenly remembered Greg's words from earlier that night.
A phone conversation I'd overheard while cleaning the VIP lounge.
He had mentioned a woman named Isabella.
I looked up.
"Dante."
"What?"
"I heard Greg talking about her."
His entire posture changed.
"When?"
"Tonight. Before you arrived."
"What did he say?"
I tried to remember.
"He said Isabella wanted the girl delivered before midnight."
Silence.
Dante's expression turned deadly.
"The girl?"
I nodded.
"He said the girl didn't know anything."
Dante reached for his phone.
"Marco. Find Greg Mercer. Now."
He ended the call.
Then looked at me.
"Elena, I need you to tell me everything you heard."
I swallowed.
"He said something else."
"What?"
I closed my eyes.
The words returned.
"She has her mother's eyes."
Dante went completely still.
I opened my eyes.
"He said Isabella would recognize me immediately."
For several seconds, Dante didn't speak.
Then he walked toward the fireplace.
He pressed a hidden panel beside the mantel.
A section of the bookshelf slid open.
Behind it was a narrow safe.
He entered a code.
Removed a small wooden box.
And placed it on the desk.
"This was delivered to me after your mother's death."
I stared.
"What's inside?"
He opened it.
A silver necklace.
A faded letter.
And a photograph.
He handed me the photograph first.
I looked down.
And screamed.
Because the picture showed my mother lying in a hospital bed.
Holding a newborn baby.
Beside her stood Dante Vancel.
Younger.
Perhaps twenty-eight.
His hand rested gently on the baby's blanket.
And written across the bottom, in my mother's handwriting, were six words.
DANTE, PLEASE PROTECT OUR LITTLE BOY.
I looked up at him.
My voice barely worked.
"Why are you standing beside my mother?"
Dante's face had gone white.
I raised the photograph.
"Why is she asking you to protect Toby?"
He opened his mouth.
But before he could answer, the office doors burst open.
A bodyguard rushed inside.
"Boss!"
Dante turned.
"What?"
The man's expression was grim.
"We found Greg Mercer."
"Where?"
"In the East River."
My stomach twisted.
The guard swallowed.
"He's dead."
Dante's eyes narrowed.
"And there's something else."
"What?"
The guard looked at me.
Then back at Dante.
"Someone carved a message into the leather seat of his car."
Dante's voice dropped.
"Read it."
The guard hesitated.
Then spoke.
May you like
"THE GIRL BELONGS TO SLOANE. BRING HER BEFORE SUNRISE, OR THE BOY DIES."
End of Chapter 2.
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