Chapter 2 - The Photograph in the Dead Woman’s File
Dante did not ask Emily to sit.
That was normal.
What was not normal was the photograph lying on his desk.
Emily recognized herself immediately.
She was nineteen.
Her hair was shorter, her glasses different, her smile easier.
Beside her stood Leo, barely sixteen.
And behind them stood their father.
Leonard Davies.
Emily stopped breathing.
“Where did you get that?”
Dante watched her carefully.
“My security team.”
“That photograph is twelve years old.”
“I know.”
Emily looked at him.
There was no trace of the man who had laughed twenty minutes earlier.
“What exactly are you investigating?”
“You.”
The answer landed without decoration.
Emily folded her arms.
“I work sixty hours a week for you, organize your illegal tax structure, remember your cardiologist appointments, and somehow prevent your employees from murdering vendors. What more would you like to know?”
“Your father.”
Her sarcasm vanished.
“He’s dead.”
“When?”
“Eight years ago.”
“How?”
“Suicide.”
Dante said nothing.
Emily hated that silence.
Her father had been a forensic accountant for the city of Chicago. Brilliant, anxious, compulsively meticulous.
After Emily’s mother died, Leonard had changed.
Then came the paranoia.
Locked windows.
Burned documents.
Repeated warnings that someone was watching their house.
Eventually, Emily had believed stress had destroyed him.
One winter morning, police found his car beside Lake Michigan.
His body was recovered two days later.
Dante pushed another photograph across the desk.
Emily looked down.
Her father stood outside a restaurant.
Beside him was a beautiful dark-haired woman.
Emily had never seen her before.
Dante had.
His face changed.
“My wife.”
Emily slowly raised her eyes.
“Clara?”
Dante nodded.
The room suddenly felt colder.
“When was this taken?”
“Three days before she died.”
Emily looked again.
Her father appeared frightened.
Clara was handing him an envelope.
“What did my father have to do with your wife?”
“That is what I intend to discover.”
Emily remembered the transaction.
Eight thousand dollars.
Her brother.
Her father.
The same offshore network.
She should tell Dante.
Instead she asked, “Why investigate me now?”
“Because Sal’s stolen money touched an account connected to your family.”
Her stomach dropped.
So he already knew.
Dante watched the reaction.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Emily hesitated.
“My brother’s facility received eight thousand dollars from the network.”
“When?”
“Four days ago.”
Dante leaned back.
“Did you arrange it?”
“No.”
“Did Leo?”
“Leo barely handles his own debit card.”
Dante studied her for several seconds.
Emily understood something then.
He did not know whether she was victim or infiltrator.
And Dante Marino survived by assuming everyone was capable of betrayal.
Including her.
“I didn’t steal your money.”
“I know.”
That surprised her.
“How?”
“Because if you wanted to steal from me, you wouldn’t use your brother’s medical account.”
Emily blinked.
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Still taking it.”
For half a second, his mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then Marco entered.
His expression killed the moment.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We searched Sal’s apartment.”
“And?”
“We found this.”
Marco placed a small metal box on the desk.
Inside were photographs.
Clara.
Leonard.
Several Marino captains.
And one photograph of Emily entering Hawthorne Residential Center six months earlier.
Someone had been watching her.
Emily felt suddenly exposed.
“There’s more,” Marco said.
He handed Dante a flash drive.
“Encrypted files. Dates go back at least ten years.”
Dante inserted it into his computer.
Most folders were unreadable.
One was not.
C.M. — NOVEMBER 17.
Clara Marino’s initials.
The date of her death.
Dante clicked.
A scanned document appeared.
It was a life-insurance policy.
Emily leaned closer.
Clara’s beneficiary was Dante.
Nothing unusual.
Then Emily noticed an attachment.
A handwritten note.
Dante stared at it.
He recognized Clara’s handwriting instantly.
If anything happens to me, Leonard has the ledger. Do not trust Sal. Do not trust anyone who tells you the bomb was meant for Dante.
Dante went motionless.
Emily reread the sentence.
“The bomb wasn’t meant for you.”
For nine years, Dante had believed Clara died because someone tried to kill him.
Every punishment.
Every war.
Every sleepless night.
Every corpse.
Built on that belief.
His voice was barely audible.
“Then who was it meant for?”
Emily looked at Clara’s photograph.
“For her.”
Marco’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“What?”
He listened.
Then looked at Dante.
“Hawthorne called.”
Emily froze.
“What happened?”
Marco lowered the phone.
“Leo Davies disappeared forty minutes ago.”
May you like
Emily’s folder fell from her hands.
And somewhere beneath Chicago, Sal Genevesi smiled for the first time that day.
