Chapter 2 - The Mistress Who Knew Too Much
Valentina Russo opened the penthouse door wearing one of my shirts.
For nine months, I had mistaken the sight for intimacy.
That morning, it looked like evidence.
"Dante?"
She smiled, then immediately stopped.
"What's wrong?"
I stepped inside without answering.
The apartment was exactly as I'd left it.
White marble floors.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan.
A bottle of expensive champagne still sitting in an ice bucket.
My discarded tie hung over the back of a chair.
Valentina closed the door.
"I called you six times. You haven't answered."
I looked at the phone in her hand.
"Where were you Monday evening at 8:17?"
She frowned.
"What?"
"Monday. Eight seventeen at night."
"Here. With you."
"What were you doing?"
She gave a small, nervous laugh.
"Dante, is this some kind of interrogation?"
"Answer."
Her expression hardened.
"We had dinner delivered around eight. Then you took a call in the bedroom. I was in the living room."
"How long was I gone?"
"I don't know. Twenty minutes?"
I remembered the call.
Enzo Russo, Valentina's father, had asked me to discuss a shipment agreement involving two terminals in New Jersey.
I had been irritated by the interruption.
Valentina had kissed my cheek and told me to take the call.
I had left my phone on the coffee table because I used a separate encrypted device for business conversations.
The same device that contained my executive security credentials.
"Did you touch my phone?" I asked.
Her eyes moved toward the table.
"No."
"Think carefully."
"I didn't touch your phone."
I reached into my coat and placed a printed security report beside the champagne.
She glanced at it.
"What is that?"
"An authorization issued from this penthouse while I was on the phone with your father."
She went still.
"What authorization?"
"One that put my wife's life in danger."
For the first time since I had known her, Valentina looked genuinely frightened.
"Isabella?"
I watched her closely.
"You knew her name."
"Of course I knew her name, Dante. Everyone knows you're married."
"You told me you never wanted to discuss my marriage."
"Because you always got angry when I asked about it."
That was true.
I had wanted the affair without the inconvenience of acknowledging the woman I was betraying.
Valentina stepped toward me.
"What happened to Isabella?"
"She's gone."
Her lips parted.
"Gone where?"
"I don't know."
"Did she find out about us?"
"She knows everything."
Valentina looked away.
I saw something change in her face.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
"Who did you tell about the penthouse?" I asked.
"No one."
"Valentina."
"Just my father."
"When?"
She hesitated.
"Before we started seeing each other regularly."
My jaw tightened.
"Why?"
"Because he pays for most of my living expenses. He wanted to know where I was staying."
I looked around the apartment.
I paid for the penthouse through a company whose ownership was concealed behind several holding entities.
Very few people knew it existed.
Yet Enzo Russo had known from the beginning.
"Did he ever come here?"
"No."
"Did he send anyone?"
She folded her arms.
"You're frightening me."
"Then tell me the truth."
Her eyes flashed.
"You don't get to come into this apartment after spending nine months with me and act as though I broke your marriage by myself."
The words hit harder than I expected.
She was right.
Not about everything.
But about that.
I had chosen to be there.
I had lied.
I had bought her jewelry.
I had told her things I should never have said.
Once, after too much bourbon, she'd asked whether I might leave Isabella.
I'd answered, "If things were simpler, maybe."
I remembered those words now with a disgust so sharp I almost tasted it.
They had cost me nothing when I said them.
For Isabella, they had destroyed eleven years of trust.
"I'm not here to blame you for my choices," I said. "I'm here because someone used this apartment to issue an order against my wife."
Valentina stared at the report.
"What kind of order?"
"One that could have gotten her killed."
Her face lost its color.
"No."
"Who else had access to my devices?"
She looked toward the hallway.
I followed her gaze.
"Valentina?"
She shook her head.
"My father wouldn't do that."
I had not mentioned her father.
The silence between us became unbearable.
"What did Enzo ask you to do?"
"Nothing."
"Don't lie."
Her breathing quickened.
"Six weeks ago, he asked whether you still used the black security phone."
I felt my pulse pounding behind my eyes.
"What did you tell him?"
"That you did."
"What else?"
"He asked whether you kept it locked."
I waited.
"I said yes."
"And?"
She began crying.
"Dante, I thought he was checking whether you trusted me."
I stared at her.
"What did he ask you to do?"
She covered her mouth.
"Take a photograph."
"Of what?"
"The back of the phone. He said the serial number would tell him whether someone had sold you compromised equipment."
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
My father had taught me three rules when I was young.
Never trust a man who needed to know more than his position required.
Never confuse loyalty with affection.
And never allow anyone to gain access to the people you loved.
I had broken every one of them.
"Did you send him the photograph?"
She nodded.
"When?"
"About a month ago."
"Did he ask for anything else?"
"Only whether Gabriel still ran your residential security."
There it was.
Gabriel Voss.
The man I had trusted with Isabella's life.
"Why would your father ask about Gabriel?"
"I don't know."
"Has he met him privately?"
"Sometimes."
"Where?"
She shook her head.
"At my father's offices. Once at a restaurant in Brooklyn."
"How often?"
"I don't know."
I looked at her until she stopped crying.
"Your father has been using you."
Her voice hardened.
"You used me too."
I nodded.
"Yes."
The admission seemed to surprise her.
I had spent most of my life treating accountability like a weakness.
But Isabella's recorded voice kept returning to me.
You did.
The person who had made a promise was me.
Valentina had participated in an affair.
I had destroyed a marriage.
Those were not the same responsibilities.
"Did you know he wanted Isabella harmed?" I asked.
"No."
"Did you know he was stealing information?"
"I knew he wanted information about your operations. He said it was necessary for the alliance."
"And you didn't think to tell me?"
"Every time I tried to discuss business, you told me to stay out of it."
Again, she was telling the truth.
I had treated her as a beautiful escape from responsibility.
Then I had acted shocked when I discovered she had responsibilities of her own.
"Your father may have compromised every private system I use," I said. "You need to understand how dangerous that is."
Valentina sank onto the sofa.
"What happens now?"
"You're going to tell me everything you remember."
"And after that?"
"After that, you need a lawyer."
She stared at me.
"Are you leaving me?"
I looked around the apartment.
At the champagne.
The expensive furniture.
The gifts.
The carefully constructed fantasy that had cost me the only woman who had ever loved me without wanting something in return.
"This ended the moment I chose to betray my wife," I said. "I just didn't admit it until now."
Valentina began crying again.
I didn't comfort her.
Not because I wanted to punish her.
Because doing so would have been another lie.
I left the penthouse thirty minutes later with copies of the messages her father had sent her.
Some were ordinary.
Others weren't.
One message contained a photograph of my private phone.
Another included the words:
Make sure he stays in Manhattan through Wednesday. Gabriel needs the window.
I read that sentence six times.
Gabriel needs the window.
The forty-eight hours I had spent with Valentina hadn't merely been an opportunity for an affair.
Someone had planned around my absence.
Someone knew exactly how long I would be gone.
And someone had needed Isabella alone.
I called Matteo.
"Don't let Gabriel leave the property."
"He's already gone."
My grip tightened.
"When?"
"Twenty minutes ago."
"Where?"
"He said he had a security emergency at one of our warehouses."
"Find him."
"We're trying. Dante, there's more."
"What?"
"I pulled archived access logs from the mansion's west gate."
I stopped walking.
"The service entrance?"
"Yes."
"Who cleared the car that arrived before Isabella left?"
Matteo hesitated.
"Gabriel."
Of course.
"Did the occupants identify themselves?"
"No."
"How many men?"
"Two."
I remembered Mrs. Brennan's words.
Two dark coats.
A radio.
A vehicle allowed through without question.
"Where did they go afterward?" I asked.
"Their car was registered to a contractor Gabriel hired three months ago."
"What contractor?"
"Blackwell Protective Services."
I knew the company.
Private security.
Former military personnel.
Men who accepted contracts without asking too many questions.
"What else?"
Matteo exhaled.
"Blackwell received three payments from a company connected to Enzo Russo."
The street around me suddenly felt too loud.
I walked toward my car.
"Matteo, listen carefully. I want every account, vehicle, and communication connected to Gabriel examined. Quietly."
"Understood."
"And contact our attorney. We need to preserve everything."
There was a pause.
"Dante, if Gabriel is working with Enzo, this isn't just a threat against Isabella."
"I know."
"Nine allied families could be affected. If word gets out that you've lost control of your own security system—"
"I know."
Matteo lowered his voice.
"Some of them will come after you."
For twenty years, that possibility would have been enough to send me into a rage.
An attack on my authority meant an attack on everything I had built.
But as I stood on a Manhattan sidewalk, surrounded by people who had no idea who I was, I found that I didn't care about the nine families.
I didn't care about the warehouses.
I didn't even care about the money.
I cared about the fact that Isabella had spent one hundred and seventeen days preparing to escape a home I had promised would always be safe.
"Let them come," I said.
I ended the call.
My driver opened the rear door.
Before I got inside, another message arrived.
An unknown number.
No greeting.
No explanation.
Only a photograph.
Isabella stood outside a small grocery store wearing jeans, a gray sweater, and sunglasses.
She was carrying a paper bag.
The photograph had been taken from across the street.
Beneath it was a message.
Your wife is easier to find than you think.
A second message followed.
Sign over the Port Newark terminal contracts by noon tomorrow, or the next photograph will be taken after she's dead.
My entire body went cold.
I enlarged the image.
There was a street sign behind Isabella, partly hidden by a delivery truck.
I could make out the last four letters.
FORD.
I looked at the timestamp.
The photograph had been taken less than an hour earlier.
Someone had found her.
Someone was watching.
And for the first time since her disappearance, I faced a decision that terrified me more than any gun ever had.
I could unleash every man under my command and risk leading the enemy directly to my wife.
Or I could do something I had spent my entire life refusing to do.
Admit that my power was no longer enough to protect her.
I got into the car.
"Where to, sir?" the driver asked.
I stared at the photograph.
"To my attorney's office."
He looked surprised.
"Not the mansion?"
"No."
I opened my contacts and found the number of a federal prosecutor who had spent six years trying to put me in prison.
For the first time in my life, I pressed call.
May you like
And when he answered, I said seven words that would eventually destroy everything I owned.
"I have evidence of a murder conspiracy."
