Chapter 3 - The Brother Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
I didn't sleep.
At 6:00 A.M., I walked downstairs wearing one of Dante's oversized shirts because my clothes had been taken to be cleaned.
He was already in the kitchen.
Coffee.
Black.
Phone in hand.
No tie.
His sleeves rolled to his forearms.
He looked like a man who had spent the entire night hunting ghosts.
“You're awake.”
“So are you.”
His eyes dropped to the shirt.
Then back to my face.
“Comfortable?”
“Your wardrobe department lacks subtlety.”
A faint smile appeared.
Then I held up my phone.
“I got a message.”
Dante's expression changed.
“Show me.”
I did.
He read it.
When he finished, he set the phone down.
“You believe it?”
“I believe someone wants me to.”
“That's different.”
“Do you think your brother is alive?”
“No.”
“Then why do you look terrified?”
“Because I know him.”
“Tell me about him.”
Dante leaned against the counter.
“Luca was three years older than me.”
“What was he like?”
“Charismatic.”
I waited.
“Funny.”
Another pause.
“Ambitious.”
“And?”
“Brilliant.”
The way Dante said it made the word sound almost painful.
“Did you love him?”
“Yes.”
Past tense.
Always past tense.
“What happened between you?”
“We fought.”
“About what?”
“My father.”
I listened.
“Luca believed the family business needed to change. He wanted out of the criminal side.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“My father disagreed.”
“Then why did Luca sign Project North Star?”
“I don't know.”
“You never asked?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He lied.”
I frowned.
“About what?”
“The night of the fire, he told me to stay away from the seventh floor.”
“And you did?”
“I was twenty-five.”
“You listened to him?”
“I trusted him.”
He looked at me.
“That was the last mistake I made because of trust.”
I felt a chill.
“Maybe he's alive.”
“No.”
“Your message—”
“Could be bait.”
“Then let's find out.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You're not going anywhere.”
“I just said—”
“You're staying here.”
I laughed.
“I thought you trusted me.”
“I do.”
“Then trust me to make decisions.”
“Not when those decisions put you in front of a bullet.”
I crossed my arms.
“You're impossible.”
“Yes.”
We spent the morning examining my father's records.
By noon, we found something.
A bank transfer.
The recipient was a shell company.
The account had been active for ten years.
The current beneficiary was someone named Gabriel Cross.
Dante stared at the screen.
“Gabriel?”
“Know him?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“A former member of my father's security team.”
“Alive?”
“I thought he left Chicago.”
“Where?”
Dante searched.
“Milan.”
My phone rang.
It was my father's old lawyer.
I answered.
“Mr. Cole?”
His voice was shaking.
“Harper, you need to listen carefully.”
“To what?”
“Your father left instructions.”
“What kind?”
“If anything happened to him, I was to give you something.”
“What?”
“A key.”
I looked at the brass key from the box.
My heart raced.
“I already have one.”
There was silence.
“You shouldn't.”
“Why?”
“Because your father told me the first key would get you killed.”
I felt cold.
“What does the second key open?”
“The seventh floor.”
I looked at Dante.
He was already standing.
“What building?”
The lawyer inhaled.
“St. Augustine.”
We went that afternoon.
The hotel had been abandoned for years.
The city had planned to demolish it.
But legal disputes kept delaying the work.
Dante's people secured the entrance.
We entered the building.
The smell of dust and old smoke filled the air.
The elevator wasn't working.
We climbed the stairs.
Sixth floor.
Seventh floor.
My hand trembled on the brass key.
Dante stood beside me.
“You don't have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.”
The key turned.
The door opened.
The seventh floor was blackened and frozen in time.
Charred walls.
Broken windows.
A half-collapsed hallway.
I stepped inside.
Dante didn't.
“Why aren't you coming?”
He stared into the room.
“This is where she died.”
I understood.
His mother.
I reached for his hand.
He looked surprised.
“Come on.”
He followed.
At the end of the corridor was an office.
Inside, the walls were burned.
But one metal cabinet remained.
I tried the key.
It opened.
Inside were tapes.
Photographs.
And a cassette recorder.
Old technology.
Dante picked up the first tape.
The label read:
NORTH STAR — FINAL NIGHT.
He stared.
“Do we play it?”
“Yes.”
The tape began with static.
Then a man's voice.
Dante's father.
“This is a contingency recording.”
My heart raced.
“If you are hearing this, the seventh floor has been compromised.”
A second voice appeared.
My father's.
“What about the girl?”
“She stays outside it.”
“What if they find her?”
“They won't.”
“Luca will.”
Silence.
Then Dante's brother spoke.
“I won't let them touch her.”
Dante stopped the tape.
“Who is the girl?”
I stared at him.
“Me.”
He nodded slowly.
Another voice came through the tape.
Leonard Vale.
“You're both making a mistake.”
My father's voice answered.
“She is not part of your game.”
“Everything is part of the game.”
The tape continued.
There was shouting.
A gunshot.
Then my father's voice.
“Luca, no!”
The recording ended.
I stared at Dante.
“Luca wasn't killed in the fire.”
“No.”
“He was there.”
“Yes.”
“And your father knew?”
“Yes.”
A sound came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
Dante raised his weapon.
A man appeared.
Gray hair.
Dark coat.
Leonard Vale.
I froze.
Dante stepped forward.
“You've got one chance.”
Leonard smiled.
“You were always your father's son.”
Dante's voice became deadly.
“You attacked Harper.”
Leonard looked at me.
“No.”
He shook his head.
“Those men were sent by someone else.”
“Who?”
“The person who has controlled this city for ten years.”
Dante's eyes narrowed.
“My father?”
Leonard laughed.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Your father.”
I felt the world tilt.
“My father is dead.”
“That's what they wanted you to believe.”
Dante moved forward.
Leonard raised his hands.
“Don't shoot.”
“Talk.”
Leonard looked at me.
“Your father survived the fire.”
My breath disappeared.
“He wasn't in the building when it burned.”
“Where is he?”
Leonard looked toward the stairs.
“Closer than you think.”
A gunshot came from behind.
Leonard dropped.
Dante grabbed me.
A second shot hit the wall.
We ran.
At the bottom of the stairs, a black car sped away.
Dante looked at Leonard's body.
Alive.
Barely.
Leonard whispered one thing before losing consciousness.
“Luca.”
Dante knelt.
“Where?”
Leonard's eyes opened.
“He's coming for her.”
That night, I stood in Dante's bedroom doorway.
“I want to ask you something.”
He nodded.
“Do you think my father is alive?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you think Luca is alive?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you think someone has been protecting me all these years?”
His eyes met mine.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
He hesitated.
Then said something that changed everything.
“I think it was my mother.”
My heart stopped.
“She died eleven years ago.”
“I know.”
“Then how could she?”
Dante stepped closer.
“She left something behind.”
He opened a drawer.
Inside was a photograph.
Me.
At age nine.
Standing beside a woman I didn't recognize.
On the back:
She doesn't know who she is yet.
Dante looked at me.
“She was watching you.”
I stared at the picture.
“Why?”
He didn't answer.
Because on the table behind the woman in the photograph was a man.
Partially visible.
But unmistakable.
May you like
My father.
Alive.
