Chapter 3
The sound of that voice felt like an electric shock straight through my chest.
It wasn't a stranger's voice. It was cracked, rough around the edges, weathered by years or sickness, but the cadence—the slight roll of the vowels, the teasing, familiar inflection—belonged to the man I had buried in a closed casket in Queens three years ago.
"Miguel?" The name tore out of my throat before my brain could stop it.
"Back up! Now!" Dante roared.
He didn't wait for me to react. Dante grabbed my bicep with one hand and scooped Sophie into his other arm, physically dragging us away from the yawning darkness of the tunnel. Behind us, Bruno lunged forward into the entrance, barking with such frantic savagery that spit flew from his jowls.
"Bruno! Return!" Dante commanded, but for the first time, the massive Cane Corso ignored his master. The dog disappeared into the black mouth of the brick tunnel, the frantic padding of his paws echoing off the stones.
"Bruno!" Sophie sobbed, reaching out. "Mama, Bruno went into the dark!"
Dante slammed his palm against the carved brass ornament on the wall. The antique walnut panel snapped shut with a heavy, final *thud*, cutting off the sound of the dog’s growls and the damp, freezing draft.
"Dante, let me go!" I fought his grip, pounding on his chest. "You heard him! That was Miguel! How is that possible? I stood at his grave! Your mother paid for the plot!"
"Elena, pull yourself together!" Dante barked, shaking me gently by the shoulders until my eyes locked onto his. His face was pale, his eyes dead serious. "If you lose your mind right now, you get your daughter killed. Do you understand me? Look at her!"
I looked down. Sophie was trembling violently, her eyes huge and filled with tears, clutching my wet jeans. My maternal instinct kicked in like ice water thrown over a fire. I swallowed the scream rising in my chest, dropped to my knees, and gathered Sophie into my arms, burying my face in her curly hair.
"I'm here, baby," I whispered, though my whole body was shaking. "Mama's right here. You're safe."
Heavy footsteps pounded down the polished hardwood of the main hallway. Marco, Dante's head of security, rounded the corner with a submachine gun slung across his tactical vest, flanked by two armed guards in dark suits.
"Boss!" Marco shouted, sweeping the corridor with his weapon before zeroing in on Dante. "The motion sensors tripped along the north seawall. Perimeter fence has been cut from the outside. What happened?"
"The old bootlegger tunnel," Dante said, his voice deadly quiet. "Someone bypassed the pressure plates. He's inside the walls."
Marco's face drained of color. "That's impossible. Nobody knows about the lower tunnels except—"
"Except the inner circle," Dante cut him off, a lethal edge in his tone. "Lock the estate down. Level Four. Nobody leaves. If anything moves on the grounds that isn't wearing a Moretti badge, shoot first. And find my mother. Bring her to my study right now."
"On it," Marco said, motioning to the guards. "Move! Sweep the west wing!"
Dante turned back to me, extending a hand to pull me up. "My study. We don't leave each other's sight until I figure out how deep this breach goes."
Minutes later, we were inside Dante's private sanctuary. The study was massive, lined floor to ceiling with dark mahogany bookshelves, an immense fireplace crackling with dying embers, and reinforced steel shutters that groaned as Dante pressed a button on his desk, sealing the windows shut from the outside world.
He poured three fingers of bourbon into a crystal glass and shoved it into my hands. "Drink it."
My hands shook so violently the amber liquid sloshed over the rim. "I don't want a drink, Dante. I want the truth. What did you mean out there? Why was Miguel's sketchbook in that tunnel? Why did Teresa bring me here three days after the funeral?"
Before Dante could answer, the heavy double doors of the study swung open.
Teresa Moretti stood in the doorway. At sixty-eight, the Moretti family matriarch still possessed the regal, terrifying poise of an empress. She wore a silk dressing gown, her silver hair pinned neatly, but her dark eyes were wide with something I had never seen in her: guilt.
"Dante," Teresa said softly. "The perimeter alarms..."
"Save it, Ma," Dante interrupted, his voice colder than the autumn rain outside. He tossed the worn leather sketchbook onto the mahogany desk. It landed with a dull slap right in front of her. "He's here."
Teresa looked down at the book. She didn't gasp. She didn't scream. She simply closed her eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath, her hand rising to touch the gold cross resting against her throat.
"God forgive us," she whispered.
"Who is here?!" I screamed, stepping forward, forgetting every rule of survival I had followed for three years. "Who is in this house?!"
Teresa looked at me, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Elena... Miguel didn't die that night in Crown Heights. The body in that casket was a John Doe from the city morgue."
The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet. "What?"
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"Miguel wasn't a victim of mistaken identity," Dante said, stepping closer to me, his jaw set in stone. "Your husband was an undercover operative for the federal government. And he was my father's executioner."
***
