Chapter 2 - The Stranger Who Saved Me From My Past Took Me Somewhere My Enemies Could Never ReachDante Moretti's car smelled like leather and rain.

I sat in the back seat.

He sat opposite me.

Two armed men were in the front.

Another followed behind.

I hadn't said a word since leaving the restaurant.

Neither had Dante.

That silence was worse than shouting.

Finally he said:

"Start talking."

I stared at the window.

"About what?"

"Everything."

"I can't."

"You can."

"I don't know you."

"You know enough."

"I know you're dangerous."

He almost smiled.

"So do most people."

"Then why bring me here?"

"Because the man who walked into that restaurant wasn't looking for a waitress."

I looked at him.

"He was looking for me."

"Yes."

"I don't know why."

"You do."

"I don't."

He leaned closer.

"You looked at him before he saw you."

I looked away.

"Instinct."

"No."

His voice was quiet.

"Recognition."

I hated how easily he saw through me.

We arrived at a large house overlooking Lake Michigan.

Black gates.

Private guards.

Security cameras.

The kind of place where nobody entered without permission.

Dante led me inside.

A woman waited in the foyer.

She looked at me.

Then him.

"Who's she?"

"My problem."

The woman smiled.

"Your problems usually come with guns."

"This one comes with lies."

I didn't like her.

But she smiled at me.

"I'm Sofia."

"Dante's sister."

I nodded.

She studied my face.

"You look terrified."

"I'm fine."

She laughed.

"She's worse than I expected."

Dante ignored her.

He led me into a study.

The door closed.

"Sit."

I didn't.

He pointed at the chair.

I sat.

He remained standing.

"You were not born Nora Bennett."

I stared.

"How do you know?"

"The real Nora Bennett died six years ago."

My blood turned cold.

"What?"

He placed a folder on the table.

A birth certificate.

Old school records.

Hospital photographs.

My hands trembled.

The name on every document was different.

Elena Hart.

I stared.

He watched me.

"That's you."

"No."

"It is."

"I changed my name."

"After your father disappeared."

I looked at him.

"You know about my father?"

"I know a lot."

"Where is he?"

"Dead."

The word hit me like a physical blow.

"No."

Dante sat.

"The last confirmed sighting was three years ago."

"He disappeared."

"Yes."

"I was told he ran."

"He didn't."

I swallowed.

"Then what happened?"

Dante pushed another photograph across the table.

My father.

Standing beside Raymond Vale.

My blood froze.

"Your father worked for him."

"No."

"He did."

"He would never."

"He did."

"You're lying."

Dante stared at me.

"You came to Chicago because Vale's men were hunting you."

I said nothing.

"Why?"

"Because I found something."

"What?"

"I can't tell you."

"You will."

"No."

His eyes narrowed.

"Do you know what happens to people who keep secrets around me?"

"They die?"

He smiled.

"Sometimes."

I looked at him.

"Then why am I alive?"

"Because you saved my life."

I froze.

"What?"

"At the restaurant."

He shook his head.

"You don't understand."

"I was the one who pulled you behind me."

"No."

He pointed at my hands.

"You saw the shooter first."

I realized.

He was right.

Before the stranger had drawn his gun, I had noticed his reflection in the silverware.

I had moved without thinking.

Dante had followed my movement.

He had survived because I reacted.

"You saved me before I knew I needed saving."

I looked down.

He stood.

"That's worth more than money."

"I don't want money."

"I know."

"What do you want?"

"You."

My heart stopped.

"What?"

"Your trust."

I laughed nervously.

"That's not something I can give."

"Then we'll build it."

He walked toward the door.

"You'll stay here tonight."

"No."

"You'll stay."

"I have work."

"You don't."

"I need my apartment."

"Your apartment is under surveillance."

I froze.

"What?"

"Three men."

"Since when?"

"Yesterday."

I stared.

Someone had found me.

Dante opened the door.

"You can hate me tomorrow."

Then he paused.

"Tonight, stay alive."

He walked away.

I sat alone.

For the first time in three weeks, I locked a door from the inside and knew nobody could enter without permission.

I should have felt safe.

Instead, I felt trapped.

Because I knew something Dante didn't.

There was a second message on my phone.

One I hadn't shown him.

A photograph.

My mother.

Alive.

And the text beneath it said:

TELL MORETTI WHERE THE LEDGER IS.

I stared at the picture.

My mother had been dead for eight years.

Or so I believed.

I couldn't tell Dante.

Not yet.

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Because the ledger was real.

And I was the only person who knew where my father had hidden it.