Chapter 7 - The Woman Who Chose the War
Dante spent nine days recovering.
He hated every one.
On day two, he tried to leave the hospital.
Caroline told the nurse.
On day three, he attempted to conduct a meeting from bed.
Caroline unplugged his phone charger.
On day four, he threatened to buy the hospital.
Caroline informed him ownership did not override medical advice.
By day five, even Marcus appeared entertained.
“You enjoy this,” Dante said.
Marcus kept his face neutral.
“Deeply.”
The bullet had missed Dante’s liver by less than an inch.
The surgeon called him lucky.
Dante called it poor marksmanship.
Caroline called him unbearable.
Then she kissed him when nobody was watching.
Their relationship remained unnamed.
Boyfriend sounded ridiculous.
Mafia boss with emotional complications sounded accurate but impractical.
Dante solved the problem on his first night back at the penthouse.
Caroline was changing his bandage when he asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
She stared.
“Are we really doing this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I want a correct answer.”
Caroline pressed tape over the gauze.
He flinched.
“Not yet.”
His eyes narrowed.
She smiled.
“I have a man who got shot after destroying my dating life.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It is.”
Dante caught her wrist gently.
“What do you want?”
The question surprised her.
Not what are we.
What do you want.
Caroline thought.
“Choice.”
“You have it.”
“Even if I choose something you dislike?”
His jaw flexed.
“Yes.”
“Safety.”
“I can try.”
“Honesty.”
Dante was silent longer.
“Harder.”
“Then practice.”
He nodded.
“Anything else?”
Caroline looked at him.
“You.”
Dante stopped breathing.
“Unfortunately.”
He kissed her.
The next morning, Caroline returned to the ledger.
Because love had not removed Rourke.
If anything, it gave him another weapon.
They needed to end it.
Greg joined them by video call.
His ribs were healing.
His employer had officially placed him on leave.
Unofficially, federal investigators had begun asking questions about Marston.
Greg had not told them everything.
Yet.
“I found something,” he said.
He shared a spreadsheet.
Payments from Rourke-controlled companies matched the coded amounts in Arthur’s ledger.
Caroline leaned closer.
“Grandpa’s numbers are verifiable.”
“Yes.”
Dante looked at Greg.
“Can they put Rourke away?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe isn’t useful.”
“It’s accounting, not murder-by-spreadsheet.”
Caroline almost smiled.
Greg continued.
“If we find the original payment documents Thomas mentioned, then yes. Bribery. fraud. conspiracy. tax evasion. Potentially homicide depending on what else is there.”
Thomas entered carrying Arthur’s old pattern books.
“I know where he moved Michael’s files.”
Everyone looked at him.
Caroline stood.
“You said you didn’t.”
“I didn’t remember.”
“That sounds convenient.”
Thomas accepted the suspicion.
“Arthur moved them during the 2002 renovation.”
“To where?”
“He used the tailoring orders.”
Caroline frowned.
“What?”
Thomas opened a pattern book.
“Every tenth client.”
Caroline examined the records.
A tiny symbol appeared beside certain names.
A triangle.
She remembered it.
Her grandfather told her it meant rush order.
It didn’t.
She collected the marked names.
Initials formed an address.
2147 West Fulton.
Dante knew it.
“A storage building.”
Thomas nodded.
“Arthur owned a unit there under your grandmother’s maiden name.”
The unit had not been opened in twenty-four years.
Inside were old furniture, bolts of discontinued fabric and six garment boxes.
The last box held documents.
Real documents.
Bank transfers.
Recorded conversations.
Photographs.
A list of paid officials.
And a sealed envelope addressed:
DANTE BAKER.
He opened it alone.
Caroline waited outside the storage unit.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
When Dante emerged, his face was controlled.
Too controlled.
“What did it say?”
He handed her the letter.
Arthur’s handwriting.
Dante,
Your father loved you. That is the kindest truth I can give you.
The harder truth is that he used love to justify becoming a man your mother would not have recognized.
Do not avenge him.
End what he could not.
If you ever become powerful enough to choose between being feared and being free, choose freedom.
Michael believed there was no difference.
He was wrong.
Arthur.
Caroline looked at Dante.
“What are you thinking?”
“That your grandfather was annoyingly wise.”
“That is hereditary.”
Dante almost smiled.
Then he looked around the storage room.
“If we give this to federal investigators, half the city burns.”
“Figuratively?”
“Mostly.”
“Comforting.”
Dante picked up the files.
“I built legitimate companies beside my father’s organization.”
“I know.”
“If I turn this over, investigators will look at me.”
“Yes.”
“I could lose everything.”
Caroline stepped closer.
“Everything?”
His eyes found hers.
She did not need to say more.
Dante touched her face.
“No.”
“Then decide what you can live without.”
That evening, Dante met with his captains.
Caroline was not present.
He told her later what happened.
Some wanted Rourke killed.
Some wanted the ledger destroyed.
Some insisted law enforcement could never be allowed near Baker records.
Dante listened.
Then placed his father’s files on the table.
“My father built this organization for survival,” he said. “It became an excuse for every ugly thing he wanted to do.”
No one spoke.
“I will not inherit his excuses.”
One captain walked out.
Another threatened rebellion.
Marcus remained.
By midnight, the Baker organization had divided.
Rourke learned within an hour.
Chicago’s underworld began choosing sides.
Caroline heard all of it from the back room of her shop while stitching a navy jacket.
She found the normality almost absurd.
The brass chime sounded.
Adrian Vale entered.
His shoulder remained in a sling.
Marcus immediately raised a gun.
Adrian lifted his good hand.
“I came alone.”
Dante stepped from the fitting room.
“What do you want?”
“To finish this.”
Adrian looked at Caroline.
“Arthur’s murderer was Samuel Price.”
Caroline froze.
“Dante’s attorney?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Rourke ordered it.”
Dante’s eyes hardened.
“Proof?”
Adrian placed a phone on the table.
Recording.
Samuel’s voice.
Rourke’s voice.
Arthur’s name.
Payment.
The date.
Caroline listened without moving.
When it ended, Adrian said, “Price is meeting Rourke tomorrow.”
“Where?” Dante asked.
Adrian told him.
Marcus looked suspicious.
“Why help us?”
Adrian laughed weakly.
“Because I spent twenty-eight years surviving consequences of one terrible choice.”
He looked at Dante.
“Your father was wrong. Arthur was right. Survival isn’t the same as living.”
Dante’s face remained hard.
“You expect forgiveness?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I expect nothing.”
Adrian turned toward the door.
Caroline stopped him.
“Did Grandpa forgive you?”
Adrian looked back.
Tears appeared in the eyes of a man she had thought incapable of them.
“No.”
A pause.
“But he understood me.”
Then he left.
Dante looked at Caroline.
“What?”
“You wanted to forgive him.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You know me too well.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Dante’s phone rang.
Marcus answered his own simultaneously.
Both faces changed.
“What happened?” Caroline asked.
Marcus looked toward the front windows.
“Rourke made his move.”
Outside, flames rose into the night.
Not from Dante’s property.
Not from a warehouse.
From the building next door.
Fire crawled rapidly toward Jones Custom Tailoring.
Caroline ran for the door.
Dante caught her around the waist.
“Grandpa’s shop!”
“Caroline.”
“Let me go!”
The windows exploded.
Fire rushed through the ceiling.
The brass chime rang wildly as heat warped the front door.
Caroline screamed.
Dante held her while firefighters arrived.
Forty-seven years of fabric.
Patterns.
Photographs.
Memories.
Wood polished by Arthur Jones’s hands.
Burning.
Caroline stood in the street and watched the place that had raised her disappear behind smoke.
Dante held her.
She did not cry.
Not yet.
Across the street, a man in a parked car raised his phone.
Took a photograph.
Then drove away.
Rourke’s message came thirty seconds later.
NOW YOU KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO LOSE AN INHERITANCE.
Caroline stared at the burning shop.
Then she handed the phone to Dante.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“No what?”
“No more hiding.”
Her face reflected orange fire.
“We give the evidence to everyone.”
“The government?”
“The government. The newspapers. Every agency Greg can find.”
Dante studied her.
“That could destroy me too.”
“I know.”
“And you still want it?”
Caroline looked at the shop.
Then at him.
“I want this to end more than I want any building.”
May you like
Dante took her hand.
“Then we end it.”
