Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE WITH NO UNLOCKED DOORSTwenty-three minutes later, I was sitting inside a black armored SUV wondering whether saving a man's life had been the worst decision of mine.
Dante sat across from me.
He had changed nothing except his expression.
The faint amusement was gone.
His guards occupied the front seats, speaking occasionally into radios.
Rain streaked the windows, transforming East Harbor into ribbons of neon.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“I have an apartment.”
“You had an apartment.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Dante held my gaze.
“It means nobody goes there until I know who sent Marco.”
“I’m not one of your people.”
“No.”
Something strange crossed his face.
“That is precisely the problem.”
I reached for the door handle.
Locked.
“Unlock it.”
“No.”
“Mr. Russo—”
“Dante.”
“I absolutely do not care what your first name is right now.”
One of the guards coughed suspiciously.
Dante looked toward him.
The man became silent.
Then Dante looked back at me.
“You saved my life thirty minutes ago, Eleanor. Whoever hired Marco will assume you heard or saw something important.”
“But I didn’t.”
“They don't know that.”
That silenced me.
The SUV eventually passed through iron gates surrounding an enormous stone estate overlooking the Atlantic.
Inside, everything was beautiful and cold.
Marble floors.
Dark wood.
Paintings that looked older than America.
Security cameras discreetly embedded everywhere.
It was less a home than a fortress pretending to be one.
A gray-haired woman appeared from a hallway.
“Mr. Russo.”
“Mrs. Bellini, prepare the east guest suite.”
Her eyes moved toward me.
She looked surprised but said nothing.
“And find Eleanor something comfortable.”
“I’m leaving in the morning,” I said.
Dante removed his jacket.
“We’ll discuss it.”
“No. There’s nothing to discuss.”
He stopped.
For the first time, I saw what people feared.
The room seemed to tighten around him.
“I don't keep prisoners.”
“Excellent.”
“I keep people alive.”
“By locking them inside your house?”
“When necessary.”
I folded my arms.
“My father spent four years unable to leave his house without help. I promised myself after he died that nobody would decide where I was allowed to go.”
Something changed immediately.
Dante's anger disappeared.
He walked closer but stopped several feet away.
“Then the doors will remain unlocked.”
I hadn't expected that.
“You can leave whenever you choose.”
He paused.
“But if you leave tonight, two of my men follow you.”
“That's not freedom.”
“No.”
His expression hardened.
“It's the best compromise I have.”
Before I could answer, a guard entered.
His name, I learned, was Luca.
He placed a clear evidence bag on the table.
Inside lay Marco's syringe.
“Lab called.”
Dante's attention sharpened.
“And?”
“Potassium chloride.”
I knew enough from caring for my father to understand.
In the right dose, potassium chloride could stop a heart.
And afterward?
A death might resemble cardiac arrest.
My stomach turned.
“They weren't trying to scare you.”
Dante looked at me.
“No.”
“They wanted you dead quietly.”
“Yes.”
Luca hesitated.
“There’s something else.”
He handed Dante a photograph.
Dante stared at it.
Then looked at me.
“What?”
He didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
The photograph showed my apartment building.
My blood went cold.
A second photograph showed me leaving La Stella three mornings earlier.
A third showed me standing at my father's grave.
“Why does Marco have pictures of me?”
Nobody answered.
“Dante.”
His jaw tightened.
“The attempt wasn't planned tonight.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Marco wasn't watching you because you stopped him.”
He laid the photographs down.
“He was watching you before tonight.”
I felt suddenly unsteady.
“Why?”
Dante's eyes moved to the small scar above my eyebrow.
That same strange recognition from the restaurant returned.
“Your father's name.”
“What?”
“Tell me his full name.”
“Thomas Hale.”
Dante became perfectly still.
Behind him, Luca whispered something in Italian.
I heard only one word.
Impossible.
Dante walked toward an antique cabinet and removed a folder.
He opened it slowly.
Inside was an old photograph.
Two men stood beside shipping containers on the East Harbor docks.
One was younger, but unmistakable.
My father.
Beside him stood a man with Dante's eyes.
“My father,” Dante said.
I stared at the picture.
“I don't understand.”
“Neither did I.”
He turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting on the back.
Thomas Hale saved my life. If anything happens to me, protect his daughter.
My knees weakened.
Dante caught my elbow.
I pulled away.
“My father was an accountant.”
“No.”
Dante's voice was quiet.
“He was much more than that.”
I stared at him.
For four years I had fed my father, washed him, managed his medication and listened to stories about the ordinary life he claimed to have lived.
Apparently, none of it had been ordinary.
“What did he do?”
Dante looked toward Luca.
“Find everything.”
Luca disappeared.
Dante turned back to me.
“Until we understand this, you stay here.”
I wanted to argue.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Dante's expression changed.
“Don't answer.”
I did.
Silence.
Then a distorted male voice spoke.
“You should have let Russo die.”
The call ended.
My fingers went numb.
Dante took the phone from my hand.
And for the first time that night, I didn't complain.
May you like
Because suddenly the enormous house didn't feel like a prison.
It felt like the only place in East Harbor where I might survive.
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