Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Knew His Numbers Better Than His Men
Dante didn't sleep that night.
Neither did Emily.
She stayed in the office until two in the morning, reconstructing nine years of financial transfers.
At three fifteen, she found something.
Not a missing payment.
A pattern.
Every significant financial leak in the Marino organization had been followed by a personal tragedy.
Nine years ago.
Clara's death.
Six years ago.
A warehouse explosion that killed fourteen men.
Four years ago.
The disappearance of a trusted accountant.
Two years ago.
A failed hit against Dante.
Every event had involved money moving through the same offshore bank.
Emily printed the records.
Then she walked into Dante's office.
He was sitting in the dark.
She stopped.
“You don't sleep?”
“No.”
“That's unhealthy.”
He looked at her.
“So is organized crime.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
She placed the documents on his desk.
“Look.”
Dante studied them.
His face changed.
“Where did you get these?”
“I pulled archived records.”
“These were sealed.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Emily pointed to the system.
“Your security is terrible.”
“It isn't.”
“It is.”
“No one has ever accessed those records.”
Emily shrugged.
“I did.”
Dante stared.
“You enjoy making me regret hiring you.”
“I enjoy doing my job well.”
He looked at the paperwork.
“These transactions began before Clara died.”
“Yes.”
“And continued after.”
“Yes.”
He turned another page.
“Who has access?”
“Seven people.”
“Names.”
She gave him the list.
Dante read.
Then stopped.
One name stood out.
Marcus Bell.
His oldest adviser.
A man who had been beside him for twenty years.
“No.”
Emily looked at him.
“No?”
“Marcus wouldn't.”
“You said seven people.”
Dante stared.
“Marcus was with Clara the night she died.”
Emily froze.
“What?”
“He drove her home.”
Silence.
“Did you ever ask him what happened?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He said the car malfunctioned.”
Emily studied the page.
“The car that exploded?”
“Yes.”
“Your wife died.”
“Yes.”
“And you've never audited the mechanic?”
Dante looked at her.
“No.”
Emily closed her eyes.
“Oh, my God.”
“What?”
“You are one of the richest men in Chicago.”
“Yes.”
“And no one checked the mechanic?”
Dante stared.
“I trusted Marcus.”
Emily gave him a long look.
“That's going to be awkward.”
He almost smiled.
Then he stopped.
“Why did you take this job?”
The question surprised her.
Emily sat.
“Because you pay well.”
“That isn't the whole reason.”
“My brother.”
“What's wrong with him?”
“He has schizophrenia.”
Dante's expression softened.
“He's in Evanston.”
“Yes.”
“What does he need?”
“Structure. Medication. Stability.”
“How much?”
“Eight thousand a month.”
“I'll cover it.”
Emily immediately shook her head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then you own me.”
“I already employ you.”
“Exactly.”
Dante leaned back.
“You think money buys loyalty?”
“I think people with your kind of money forget the difference.”
He studied her.
She looked tired.
Not frightened.
Tired.
“I won't pay it.”
“Good.”
“I'll raise your salary.”
She stared.
“What?”
“You'll make fifteen.”
“No.”
“Eighteen.”
“Stop.”
“Twenty.”
“Mr. Marino.”
He paused.
She sighed.
“You're terrible at negotiation.”
“I usually win.”
“That's because people are scared of you.”
Dante stared.
“And you're not?”
Emily took a sip of coffee.
“I don't have the energy.”
For the first time, his mouth twitched.
She saw it.
“Don't,” she said.
“Don't what?”
“Laugh.”
He looked almost offended.
“You're telling me not to laugh?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes everyone nervous.”
Dante chuckled.
Emily pointed at him.
“See?”
His laughter faded.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
His expression hardened.
“Where?”
He listened.
“Send everyone.”
He stood.
Emily watched.
“What happened?”
“They found Marcus.”
“Where?”
“At the cemetery.”
“Which cemetery?”
Dante looked at her.
“Clara's.”
They arrived twenty minutes later.
Marcus was kneeling beside Clara's grave.
His shirt was soaked with rain.
There was blood on his hands.
Dante approached with a gun.
“Marcus.”
Marcus turned.
His face was pale.
“Dante.”
“Why are you here?”
“I came to tell you something.”
“What?”
Marcus looked at Emily.
Then back at Dante.
“Your wife didn't die in the car.”
Dante went still.
“What?”
Marcus whispered:
“She survived the explosion.”
Silence.
Dante felt the earth move beneath him.
“What did you say?”
“She survived.”
“Then why did I bury her?”
Marcus looked down.
“Because someone wanted you to believe she was dead.”
Dante stepped forward.
“Who?”
Marcus opened his mouth.
A shot cracked through the cemetery.
Marcus jerked.
Blood blossomed across his chest.
Dante caught him.
“Marcus!”
The shooter vanished into the fog.
Emily ran toward them.
Marcus grabbed her wrist.
His eyes locked onto hers.
Then he whispered:
“Clara…”
He coughed.
“She knew…”
“What did she know?” Emily asked.
Marcus looked at Dante.
“Your secretary…”
Dante frowned.
“Emily?”
Marcus's hand tightened.
“She was there.”
Then he passed out.
Dante stared at Emily.
She stared back.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Emily's heart pounded.
“I don't know.”
But deep inside, something uncomfortable stirred.
A memory.
Her mother.
A photograph.
A woman who looked strangely familiar.
May you like
And a name Emily had not heard in years.
Clara.
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