Chapter 3 - The Photograph
The restaurant became painfully quiet.
I looked at Dante.
He did not deny it.
That frightened me more than Marcus’s photograph.
“Tell me he’s lying.”
Dante glanced toward Marcus.
“Leave.”
“No.”
The word came from me.
Dante looked back.
“You don’t get to order him out until you answer me.”
Marcus smiled triumphantly.
For once, Dante Caruso appeared to consider his words carefully.
“The photograph is real.”
Something cold moved through my chest.
“You knew Marcus?”
“I knew of him.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
His answer was quiet.
“I did not know him personally.”
Marcus laughed.
“Interesting definition.”
Dante’s eyes hardened.
Marcus’s smile disappeared.
I took the phone from Marcus.
The picture showed them outside a downtown office building. Marcus was turned toward Dante. Dante appeared to be listening.
“What were you discussing?”
“A company.”
“What company?”
Dante hesitated.
Marcus answered.
“Yours.”
I stared at him.
“I don’t have a company.”
“You did.”
My confusion must have shown.
Marcus leaned against the table.
“Remember Bennett Design?”
My father’s business.
A tiny architectural restoration firm he had spent twenty-three years building before dying from a heart attack.
Marcus had handled the sale afterward.
He told me debts had consumed almost everything.
My pulse began pounding.
“What about it?”
Marcus looked at Dante.
“Tell her.”
Dante’s voice was controlled.
“Bennett Design owned a minority interest in a redevelopment parcel in South Boston.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My father’s company was broke.”
“The company was cash-poor. The land interest was not worthless.”
“How much?”
Neither man answered.
“How much?”
Dante finally said, “Today? Approximately fourteen million.”
The room tilted.
I gripped the chair.
Marcus moved toward me.
Dante stepped between us.
“Don’t touch her.”
For once, Marcus obeyed.
I could barely breathe.
“My father owned something worth fourteen million dollars?”
“Part of something,” Dante corrected gently.
“And Marcus knew?”
Dante looked at him.
“Yes.”
I turned.
Marcus’s face gave me the answer before his mouth did.
“You sold it.”
“It wasn’t that simple.”
“You sold something that belonged to me.”
“You signed the documents.”
Documents.
Hundreds of them after Dad died.
Estate papers.
Tax forms.
Debt settlements.
Marcus had placed yellow tabs beside every signature line.
Trust me, Em. I’m handling everything.
My knees weakened.
Dante pulled out the chair.
I sat because I had to.
Marcus began talking quickly.
“You were grieving. The business was collapsing. I made a decision.”
“For yourself.”
“For us.”
“There is no us.”
His face twisted.
“There could have been if you hadn’t walked away.”
The cruelty suddenly made sense.
The humiliation.
The endless insistence that nobody else would want me.
He had needed me uncertain.
Small.
Dependent.
“Did you steal from me?”
Marcus’s silence answered.
Dante’s voice became dangerously soft.
“Leave.”
Marcus looked at him.
“You think you’re better?”
“No.”
The simplicity silenced everyone.
Dante continued.
“But tonight is not about me.”
Marcus stared at me.
“I can explain.”
“Not tonight.”
“Emma—”
“Go.”
Something in my voice finally reached him.
He left.
I watched the door close.
Then I turned toward Dante.
“Your turn.”
He sat opposite me.
Eleven months earlier, Caruso Development had attempted to acquire the South Boston property.
During due diligence, Dante’s attorneys discovered irregularities.
My signature appeared on documents transferring Bennett Design’s interest to a shell corporation.
Dante suspected fraud.
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
“Because Marcus claimed you authorized everything.”
“You believed him?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Dante looked away for the first time.
“My attorney advised me not to interfere until we had proof.”
“And now?”
“Now we have most of it.”
Most.
My anger sharpened.
“You have been investigating this for eleven months?”
“Yes.”
“You saw me at the Sterling and recognized me.”
“Yes.”
I stood.
Dinner suddenly felt like a trap.
The dress.
The car.
His questions.
“Was any of tonight real?”
His eyes lifted.
“Yes.”
“How convenient.”
“Emma.”
“Did you know Marcus would show up?”
“No.”
“Did you arrange my catering assignment?”
“No.”
“Did you send him to the Sterling?”
His expression hardened.
“Absolutely not.”
I believed that part.
I wished I didn’t.
I picked up my purse.
Dante stood.
“Please.”
That word stopped me.
Men like Dante probably did not use it often.
“I should have told you immediately,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I wanted one evening before this became business.”
“That was selfish.”
“Yes.”
Again, no defense.
I looked at him.
He seemed almost angry with himself.
That made leaving harder.
I did it anyway.
Outside, rain had begun.
I walked two blocks before realizing I was crying.
Not because of Dante.
Not entirely.
Fourteen million dollars.
My father.
Marcus.
Years of believing I had failed.
A black sedan rolled beside the curb.
I stopped.
The rear window lowered.
Dante sat inside.
“I’m not getting in.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you following me?”
“Because it’s midnight and raining.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know that too.”
I stared at him.
“Then stop trying to rescue me.”
His face softened.
“I’m not.”
The car moved forward at walking speed as I continued down the sidewalk.
He stayed beside me without another word.
Three blocks later, I stopped beneath an awning.
“So you’re just going to follow me home?”
“Yes.”
“That’s incredibly annoying.”
“I’ve been told.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped me.
Dante smiled.
Not the dangerous half-smile from the ballroom.
A real one.
Then headlights appeared behind us.
A car accelerated.
Too fast.
Dante’s smile vanished.
“Emma.”
Something in his voice made me turn.
The car jumped the curb.
Dante was out of the sedan before I could move.
He reached me.
Wrapped both arms around my body.
And threw us behind a stone planter as metal screamed against concrete.
The car missed me by inches.
When everything stopped, I was beneath Dante, his body shielding mine.
His face was close.
Too close.
His breathing was hard.
Mine was worse.
“Are you hurt?”
I shook my head.
His hand came to my cheek.
It trembled.
For the first time since meeting him, Dante Caruso looked afraid.
Not for himself.
For me.
Then one of his men shouted from the street.
“Boss.”
Dante slowly looked toward the wrecked car.
The driver’s door was open.
Whoever had been driving was gone.
On the pavement beside it lay a photograph.
May you like
My photograph.
And across my face, someone had drawn a red X.
