Chapter 2 - The Man Behind the Warning
The first thing Dante Moretti did after ordering the club sealed was pour himself a drink.
The second thing he did was pour one for me.
I stared at the glass.
“I’m not drinking that.”
“You can keep holding it.”
“I don't understand you.”
“You aren't supposed to.”
He walked toward the window again.
Outside, Chicago glittered beneath the rain.
The city looked beautiful from forty floors below.
From inside the Crimson Lounge, it looked like a machine.
Thousands of windows.
Thousands of lives.
Thousands of people moving through streets without knowing which ones had already been marked.
I had lived in Chicago long enough to understand that powerful men survived by controlling information.
Dante Moretti seemed to survive by controlling fear.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“We find out who entered my building.”
“You said someone is hunting me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at me.
“Because you found your brother's photograph.”
“That doesn't explain anything.”
“It explains enough.”
I shook my head.
“I need to leave.”
“You can't.”
“My apartment—”
“Is being watched.”
I went silent.
He continued.
“One of my people checked your street.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“And?”
“There are two cars parked outside your building. Neither belongs to a resident.”
“That could mean anything.”
“It could.”
His eyes sharpened.
“But one belongs to a former security contractor who once worked for Victor Hale.”
The name struck me like ice water.
Victor.
I looked down at the photograph again.
My brother stood beside him, smiling.
That smile had haunted me for three years.
Because I couldn't remember the last time Thomas smiled at me.
“What was Victor doing with him?”
“Your brother was helping him.”
“Helping him do what?”
“Move money.”
I stepped back.
“No.”
“Your brother discovered the money wasn’t legitimate.”
“No.”
“He kept records.”
“Thomas would never—”
“He did.”
Dante took another sip.
“He wasn't dirty at first.”
I looked at him.
“At first?”
“He thought he was helping expose fraud. Victor convinced him he was working on a legal recovery project involving offshore assets.”
“And then?”
“He learned the accounts were being used to move money for organized crime.”
My mouth went dry.
“And you?”
Dante looked almost amused.
“What about me?”
“Why weren't you involved?”
“I was.”
I stared at him.
That answer was the opposite of what I wanted.
“You were?”
“Yes.”
“Then why should I believe you?”
“You shouldn't.”
The honesty stunned me.
“I don't ask people to trust me,” he said. “I ask them to survive long enough to discover the truth.”
I closed the diary.
“What exactly did my brother find?”
Dante didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he opened a drawer and removed a second photograph.
This one showed Thomas leaving a parking garage.
A man walked behind him.
The image was grainy.
But I knew him.
I knew the coat.
The posture.
The scar along the hand.
I had seen him at Thomas’s funeral.
The private investigator my parents hired after the police closed the case.
Arthur Voss.
I felt sick.
“Who is he?”
“Victor Hale's personal security chief.”
“You're sure?”
“I've been sure for three years.”
“Then why didn't you tell the police?”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“Because the police officer assigned to your brother’s case was also on Victor Hale’s payroll.”
I stared at him.
Everything I'd believed began falling apart.
My brother had not been killed by one man.
He had been erased by a system.
“What is Victor after now?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“Because the diary contains something he doesn't know you have.”
My heart stopped.
I instinctively held the diary tighter.
“You've read it.”
“Most of it.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“You had no right.”
“No.”
He walked toward me.
“But I saw the last page.”
His eyes met mine.
“And I realized you had been investigating the wrong man.”
“Then what is in my diary that Victor wants?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“I'm not.”
He pointed toward the final pages.
“You stopped writing three weeks ago.”
“So?”
“Your handwriting changes.”
I frowned.
He was right.
I had never noticed.
The last twelve pages were written more carefully.
Almost as if I knew someone might read them.
Dante noticed everything.
“There is a pattern,” he said. “Your brother left you clues.”
“What clues?”
“Numbers.”
I opened the diary.
Page after page was filled with them.
Dates.
Times.
Amounts.
Addresses.
I had always thought they were pieces of my investigation.
Dante pointed at one sequence.
“Not bank accounts.”
“What are they?”
“Locker numbers.”
My heart pounded.
“How do you know?”
“Because my father used the same system.”
“Your father?”
“Before he died, he kept information inside numbered storage units across Chicago.”
I looked at him.
“Your father was involved?”
“Very.”
“So you knew Thomas?”
Dante’s face changed.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Your brother came to me once.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“When?”
“Two days before he died.”
“What did he say?”
Dante looked toward the rain.
“He said he had evidence against Victor.”
“Then why didn't you protect him?”
His expression hardened.
“Because I did.”
I stared.
“What?”
“I assigned two men to follow him.”
“What happened?”
“They were killed first.”
My breath caught.
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“And my brother?”
“He disappeared for six hours.”
“Then died.”
“Yes.”
“What happened during those six hours?”
“I don't know.”
His voice was quieter.
“That is what I've been trying to learn.”
For the first time, I saw something beneath the armor.
Regret.
“You've been looking for Thomas's killer too?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he was the last honest man who ever asked me for help.”
The words stayed in the room.
Outside, thunder rolled across the city.
I looked down at the photograph of my brother.
For three years I had believed I was the only person who still cared what had happened.
I was wrong.
Dante Moretti had been searching too.
“So what happens now?” I asked.
“We open your diary.”
“No.”
“We already did.”
“I mean the next step.”
“Tomorrow morning, we visit the first locker.”
I looked toward the door.
“And tonight?”
“Tonight you stay here.”
“I'll sleep in a bar?”
“My apartment is upstairs.”
I almost laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“I wasn't suggesting anything.”
“You looked like you were.”
“I look like this all the time.”
That almost made me smile.
Almost.
Then the lights went out.
Every bulb in the club died at once.
The music stopped.
The room disappeared into darkness.
Dante grabbed my wrist.
“Don't move.”
Something shattered downstairs.
A scream followed.
Then gunfire.
Dante pulled me behind the desk.
His body covered mine.
The shots came in bursts.
Three.
Then two.
Then silence.
His men moved through the darkness.
I heard shouting from below.
A door slammed.
Then footsteps rushed toward the suite.
Dante drew a pistol from beneath his jacket.
The door opened.
One of his guards appeared.
“Boss!”
“What happened?”
“We caught one.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Bring him up.”
The guard disappeared.
I was shaking.
Dante looked at me.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
He lowered the gun.
Then, for one brief second, his hand touched my cheek.
Not possessive.
Checking.
Making sure I was alive.
He withdrew immediately.
A minute later, two guards dragged a man into the room.
I recognized him.
My blood turned cold.
Arthur Voss.
The private security chief from my brother’s funeral.
Dante looked at him without emotion.
“Tell me who sent you.”
Voss laughed.
“You know who.”
Dante crouched in front of him.
“Victor?”
Voss smiled.
“Ask the girl.”
His gaze moved to me.
Then he said:
“Your brother left something behind, Sofia.”
I stepped forward.
“What?”
Voss's smile widened.
“A second diary.”
May you like
Then he spat blood onto the floor.
“And Victor already has it.”
