Chapter 5 - The Man Dante Called Uncle
Salvatore Valenti had taught Dante how to fire a pistol when he was twelve.
He had attended Dante’s graduation.
He had stood beside Dante at both his parents’ funerals.
When Dante inherited the organization at thirty-two, Salvatore had kissed his forehead and told him his father would have been proud.
For seven years, he had supposedly lived in Palermo.
Marco found him twenty-eight miles from Manhattan.
A house in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Purchased through a corporation named Harrow Holdings.
One of the companies in Michael Harper’s records.
Dante stared at the address.
“Does Julian know we found this?”
“No.”
“Keep it that way.”
But Dante was learning how difficult secrets were inside his own home.
That evening Lily found him in the private gym.
She watched him hit a heavy bag.
“Is that how you get strong?”
“Partly.”
“Can I do it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you weigh forty pounds.”
“Forty-two.”
“My mistake.”
She crossed her arms.
“You promised.”
“To protect your mother. Not turn you into a prizefighter.”
“I can practice.”
Dante sighed.
Ten minutes later, he was teaching a five-year-old how to stand with her feet balanced.
Emma appeared in the doorway.
For once, she was not wearing her uniform.
Jeans.
A cream sweater.
Hair loose around her shoulders.
Dante forgot what he was saying.
Emma noticed.
So did Lily.
Lily grinned.
Dante immediately disliked that grin.
“Mommy, Mr. Dante says I’m powerful.”
“I said you have balance.”
“Same thing.”
Emma smiled.
It transformed her face.
Dante had known beautiful women.
He had dated actresses, attorneys, heiresses.
None of them had ever made a private gym feel suddenly too small.
Emma’s smile disappeared first.
Reality returned.
Michael.
Julian.
Victor.
Danger.
“I need to talk to you,” Dante said.
Lily groaned.
“Grown-up stuff?”
“Yes.”
“Boring.”
“Extremely.”
Lily collected Sir Hops and left.
Dante told Emma about Salvatore.
She listened quietly.
“You think your uncle ordered Michael’s death?”
“I think Michael believed Julian was protecting someone from my father’s generation.”
“Could there be someone else?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe there is?”
“No.”
Emma sat on the bench.
“Why steal from your own family?”
“Money isn’t always about money.”
“What else?”
“Control.”
Dante sat opposite her.
“My father chose me instead of Salvatore.”
“To lead everything?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe he never accepted it.”
Dante looked down at his hands.
“Salvatore told me he didn’t want the responsibility.”
“People say things.”
“So do frightened widows.”
Emma looked at him.
“That was unnecessary.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Become cruel whenever something gets close.”
The observation hit harder than expected.
Dante stood.
“This conversation is finished.”
Emma almost laughed.
“There.”
“What?”
“That.”
He turned.
She met his eyes.
“You’re terrified.”
Men had called Dante Valenti many things.
Dangerous.
Cold.
Merciless.
No one called him terrified.
Emma did.
Worse, she was right.
He was terrified that thirteen years of his life had been a lie.
Terrified that his father’s brother had betrayed them.
Terrified that a woman who had entered his home eleven weeks ago could already see him more clearly than people who had known him decades.
“I’m going to Connecticut tomorrow,” he said.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Michael died because of this.”
“And I’m trying to prevent you from joining him.”
“I deserve answers.”
“Lily deserves a mother.”
Emma stood.
“And you think she deserves watching me hide forever?”
Dante said nothing.
Emma moved closer.
“My daughter walked into your office because she thought she needed muscles to protect me. Do you understand what that did to me?”
Dante did.
“She’s five. She should worry about missing crayons and whether rabbits can eat pancakes. Instead, she watches doors.”
Her eyes filled.
“I did that to her by being afraid.”
“No. The men threatening you did.”
“I’m done hiding.”
Dante stared at her.
Michael had apparently married a woman far braver than anyone realized.
“Fine.”
Emma blinked.
“Fine?”
“You stay in the car.”
“No.”
“Don’t push it.”
The following afternoon, Dante, Emma and Marco drove to Greenwich.
Salvatore’s property sat behind stone walls.
No guards were visible.
That meant there were guards.
Dante rang the bell.
Salvatore himself opened the door.
Seventy years old.
Silver hair.
Perfect navy sweater.
He looked delighted.
“Dante.”
Then he saw Emma.
His smile vanished.
Only briefly.
But Dante saw it.
“Uncle.”
Salvatore embraced him.
“You should have called.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You succeeded.”
They entered.
Salvatore offered espresso.
Dante declined.
Emma walked toward a bookshelf while the men spoke.
Then she stopped.
There was a framed photograph.
Salvatore with several businessmen.
Taken years earlier.
Emma lifted it.
Her fingers began trembling.
“Emma?”
She pointed.
A younger Michael stood at the edge of the photograph.
Beside him was Victor Sloane.
And Julian.
Salvatore sighed.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Just tired.
“You should have stayed out of this, Dante.”
Marco reached for his weapon.
A red laser dot appeared on his chest.
Then another on Dante.
Salvatore calmly sat down.
“You were always too curious,” he said.
Dante stared at the man who had helped raise him.
“Did you kill Michael Harper?”
Salvatore smiled sadly.
“No.”
Emma exhaled.
Then Salvatore continued.
“Julian did.”
May you like
He looked directly at Dante.
“But he did it because your father ordered him to.”
