Chapter 2 - The Mafia Boss Said the Kidnapped Waitress Meant Nothing to Him—Until His Rival Revealed Why Her Dead Mother Had Hidden a Secret Worth MillionsThe fourth morning began with the sound of keys.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the locked door.
My wrists were swollen.
My shoulder hurt.
I hadn't slept properly since the kidnapping.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother's face.
Not the smiling photograph Marco had stolen.
The face she wore during her final weeks.
Pale.
Exhausted.
Trying to comfort me while I pretended not to notice how much pain she was in.
The lock turned.
Noah entered.
He carried breakfast.
His expression was different.
Nervous.
“Eat quickly,” he whispered.
I looked up.
“Why?”
He glanced toward the hallway.
“Something's happening.”
My heart raced.
“What?”
He shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Then he stepped closer.
“Whatever happens, stay away from the door.”
Before I could ask another question, he left.
An hour later, the building shook.
A distant crash echoed through the hallway.
Then shouting.
Footsteps.
A door slammed.
I stood.
My heart pounded.
Another crash.
Closer.
Someone shouted, “Police!”
Then a voice I recognized from the Augustine Hotel.
Low.
Controlled.
Furious.
“Emma!”
I froze.
Dante Moretti.
I rushed toward the door.
“I'm here!”
Footsteps approached.
A key turned.
Then the door burst open.
Dante stood in the doorway.
His black coat was wet.
His hair was disheveled.
The scar above his eyebrow looked stark against his pale skin.
For a moment, he simply stared at me.
Then his gaze moved to my wrists.
My arms.
The bruises.
His expression changed.
“Who touched you?”
I opened my mouth.
No sound came out.
He stepped closer.
“Emma.”
My eyes filled.
I whispered, “Marco.”
Dante's jaw tightened.
Behind him, Gabriel spoke quietly into a radio.
Dante looked back at me.
“Can you walk?”
I nodded.
He held out his hand.
I stared at it.
Then took it.
His fingers were warm.
Steady.
He didn't pull.
He simply waited until I was ready.
And together, we walked out.
The hallway was filled with police officers.
I later learned that Detective Mara Ellis had been investigating Marco Vitelli for months.
Dante's security team had located the property through a combination of surveillance footage and information from a former Vitelli employee.
Dante had provided the evidence to Ellis.
The police obtained an emergency warrant.
And the rescue operation began before dawn.
Marco had escaped through a service tunnel.
Several guards were arrested.
Noah was among them.
When I saw him standing beside an officer, our eyes met.
He looked down.
I wanted to hate him.
Part of me did.
But I remembered his warning.
Stay away from the door.
And I wondered whether he had tried to help.
Outside, November sunlight hurt my eyes.
I stood beside an ambulance while a paramedic examined my wrists.
Dante remained nearby.
He looked as though he hadn't slept.
The paramedic asked whether I had lost consciousness.
I nodded.
She checked my pupils.
Then recommended hospital evaluation.
I wanted to refuse.
I wanted my apartment.
My bed.
My mother's photograph.
But the world tilted when I stood.
Dante stepped forward.
“Easy.”
I grabbed his sleeve.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
He looked at me.
“Emma.”
I shook my head.
“Don't let them take me back.”
His expression softened.
“They won't.”
I began crying.
He glanced toward the paramedic.
“Can I ride with her?”
She nodded.
Dante climbed into the ambulance.
And for the first time in four days, I felt something other than terror.
At the hospital, doctors examined my injuries.
Bruises.
Dehydration.
A mild concussion.
No broken bones.
I should have felt lucky.
Instead, I felt empty.
A nurse brought me water.
Another offered a blanket.
Detective Ellis took a preliminary statement after the doctor cleared me.
Dante waited outside.
When the interview ended, he entered carrying a paper bag.
I looked up.
“What is that?”
“Food.”
I stared.
He placed it on the table.
“Soup. Bread. Tea.”
I almost laughed.
“You look like someone who owns restaurants.”
“I do.”
“Then why are you carrying soup in a paper bag?”
He looked at me.
“Because you need to eat.”
I stared.
Then began crying.
Dante looked alarmed.
“Did I say something wrong?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
He waited.
I whispered, “Nobody's taken care of me in a long time.”
His expression changed.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he sat beside the bed.
“Eat, Emma.”
I opened the bag.
And cried harder.
That evening, Dante told me what he knew.
Marco Vitelli had used me to deliver a threat.
Then kidnapped me to pressure Dante into surrendering several shipping contracts.
But there was another reason.
My mother.
Catherine Chase.
Dante placed a folder on the hospital table.
“Your mother worked for Harborline Logistics.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“Harborline was once controlled by my father.”
I stared.
“What?”
Dante continued.
“Twenty years ago, the company handled shipping records for several businesses.”
I felt cold.
“Criminal businesses?”
He nodded.
“Some.”
I looked down.
“My mother was a bookkeeper.”
Dante studied me.
“She may have discovered financial records that someone wanted hidden.”
I swallowed.
“Marco asked about a blue notebook.”
Dante went still.
“What notebook?”
I explained.
The questions.
The photograph.
The way Marco seemed obsessed with something my mother had left behind.
Dante listened.
Then asked, “Do you remember seeing it?”
I closed my eyes.
A blue notebook.
My mother sitting at the kitchen table.
Writing numbers.
Sometimes crying.
Sometimes looking toward the window as though someone might be watching.
I opened my eyes.
“Yes.”
Dante leaned forward.
“Where is it?”
I swallowed.
“I don't know.”
The next morning, Dante offered me a place to stay.
His penthouse had private security.
A guest suite.
And enough space that I wouldn't have to see him unless I wanted to.
I hesitated.
I knew his reputation.
I knew what people said.
And after four days in captivity, the idea of entering another man's home frightened me.
Dante noticed.
“You can choose somewhere else.”
I looked up.
“What?”
He continued.
“A hotel. A friend's apartment. Anywhere you feel comfortable.”
I stared.
“You're not going to insist?”
His expression softened.
“No.”
I swallowed.
“Why?”
“Because you've had enough people making decisions for you.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered, “Thank you.”
I chose the penthouse.
Not because I trusted Dante completely.
But because I trusted the way he respected my answer.
The guest suite overlooked Lake Michigan.
The bed was enormous.
The bathroom had heated floors.
And someone had placed fresh flowers beside the window.
I stood in the doorway.
Dante waited behind me.
“If you need anything, call the house manager.”
I turned.
“Dante?”
He looked at me.
“Why are you helping me?”
He considered.
Then answered quietly.
“Because you were dragged into a conflict you never chose.”
I swallowed.
“That's all?”
He looked away.
For a moment, he seemed uncomfortable.
Then he said, “For now.”
Over the following days, I began learning about Dante Moretti.
Not the headlines.
Not the rumors.
The man.
He drank black coffee.
Read newspapers at breakfast.
Worked too much.
And disliked people touching his things.
He had a sister named Isabella.
She was thirty.
A pediatric surgeon.
And the only person in Chicago who seemed completely unimpressed by his reputation.
When she visited, she looked at me with concern.
“Are you sleeping?”
I shrugged.
“Sometimes.”
She nodded.
“Nightmares?”
I looked down.
“Yes.”
Isabella sat beside me.
“That's understandable.”
I swallowed.
“I keep thinking I'm back there.”
She nodded.
“Have you spoken with a counselor?”
I shook my head.
She smiled gently.
“I know someone excellent.”
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
Dante never entered my room without knocking.
Never asked me to explain my nightmares.
Never demanded gratitude.
But sometimes, when I couldn't sleep, I found him in the kitchen.
He would make tea.
We would sit at the island.
And talk about ordinary things.
Movies.
Books.
Food.
The city.
One night, I asked him about the scar above his eyebrow.
He smiled faintly.
“Childhood accident.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Really?”
He laughed softly.
“My sister threw a toy truck at me.”
I stared.
Then burst out laughing.
Dante grinned.
“She was six.”
“What did you do?”
“Cried.”
I laughed harder.
He shook his head.
“Don't tell anyone.”
I smiled.
“Your secret is safe.”
The investigation into my mother's past continued.
Dante's attorneys located old Harborline records.
Detective Ellis reviewed financial documents.
And I searched my memories.
Then one afternoon, I remembered something.
My mother had owned a sewing machine.
An old Singer.
She kept it even after she stopped sewing.
When she became ill, she asked me not to sell it.
I had thought it was sentimental.
Now I wondered.
I told Dante.
He looked up.
“Where is it?”
“My apartment.”
He nodded.
“Let's go.”
We visited the apartment with Detective Ellis.
The door had been repaired after Marco's men forced entry.
My mother's photograph was gone.
So were several drawers of paperwork.
But the sewing machine remained.
It stood beneath the window.
Covered by a faded floral cloth.
I approached slowly.
My throat tightened.
I remembered my mother sitting there.
Humming.
Mending my school uniforms.
Making Halloween costumes.
I touched the wooden cabinet.
Then opened the drawer.
Inside were needles.
Thread.
A measuring tape.
And a small brass key.
My heart raced.
“Dante.”
He approached.
I held up the key.
He studied it.
Then looked toward the machine.
“Check the base.”
I knelt.
The cabinet had a narrow compartment beneath the pedal.
The key fit.
A click.
I opened it.
Inside lay a blue notebook.
Wrapped in plastic.
I stared.
Then began crying.
My mother had hidden it where nobody would think to look.
Dante crouched beside me.
“Emma.”
I looked at him.
He smiled gently.
“You found it.”
The notebook contained dates.
Account numbers.
Shipping references.
And names.
Some belonged to companies.
Others belonged to men I had never heard of.
But one name appeared repeatedly.
Marco Vitelli.
Another appeared beside several large transfers.
Alessandro Moretti.
Dante's father.
And on the final page, my mother had written a sentence that made Dante go completely still.
IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME, TELL DANTE THE TRUTH ABOUT HIS FATHER.
I looked at him.
His face had gone pale.
“Dante?”
May you like
He stared at the notebook.
Then whispered, “What truth?”
Related Stories
