Chapter 4 - The Blood Beneath the Romano Empire
Dante had faced armed rivals, federal investigations, and men who would have killed him for a fraction of his fortune.
Nothing had prepared him for the possibility that Emma Caldwell was his sister.
He stared at the hospital bracelet.
Emma held it carefully, as though it might break.
“This doesn't prove anything,” she said.
Dante nodded.
“No.”
“My mother could have been protecting someone else's child.”
“Yes.”
“Someone could have forged the records.”
“Yes.”
Emma looked at him.
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
Dante swallowed.
“Because you have my mother's eyes.”
Emma turned away.
It was too much.
The gunfire.
The diary.
The photograph.
The possibility that the woman she had called Mother had been hiding the truth about her birth.
She sat on the edge of the trunk.
“I need air.”
Dante immediately stepped aside.
Mateo appeared at the doorway.
“We should move. The police will be here soon.”
Dante nodded.
“Take the diary and bracelet. Photograph everything first. Then secure the unit.”
Emma stood.
“Wait.”
Both men looked at her.
“Those are my mother's things.”
Mateo lowered his hands.
Dante met Emma's eyes.
“Nothing leaves without your permission.”
She considered him.
Then handed Mateo the diary.
“Make copies. I want the originals back.”
“You have my word,” Mateo said.
They drove to a private medical clinic in Lincoln Park.
Dante arranged independent DNA testing through a physician who had no business ties to the Romano family.
Emma insisted on being present for every step.
She watched the nurse label both samples.
She photographed the sealed envelopes.
She requested copies of the laboratory paperwork.
Dante did not object.
For once, his money and influence meant nothing.
They were simply two people waiting to learn whether they shared blood.
The results would take several days.
Dante wanted answers immediately.
Emma wanted time to think.
Neither got what they wanted.
At noon, Mateo received a call.
His expression darkened.
“Boss, we found something.”
Dante stood.
“What?”
“The man who attacked the storage facility worked for Vincent's private security company.”
Emma looked up.
Dante's voice became dangerously quiet.
“Are you certain?”
“His employment file is still active.”
“Bring him in.”
“He's dead.”
Dante stared.
“What?”
“Someone killed him before our people could question him.”
Silence settled over the room.
Emma folded her arms.
“So whoever did this is cleaning up.”
Mateo nodded.
“Looks that way.”
Dante turned toward the window.
Chicago moved beneath a gray sky.
For twenty years, Vincent Romano had been his adviser.
His mentor.
The man who taught him how to read contracts, identify betrayal, and survive enemies.
After Salvatore died, Vincent had helped Dante take control of the family businesses.
He had stood beside him at funerals.
Celebrated his victories.
Called him son.
And now Dante wondered how much of that affection had been real.
That evening, Dante visited Vincent at the Romano headquarters.
The building occupied an entire block near the river.
Forty floors of glass and steel.
A monument to power.
Vincent's office was on the thirty-eighth floor.
The older man stood beside a wall of windows, holding a glass of red wine.
“Dante,” he said warmly. “I heard there was trouble this morning.”
Dante entered alone.
“Did you?”
“Someone attacked a storage facility. Mateo mentioned it.”
“Mateo didn't tell you.”
Vincent paused.
“News travels.”
Dante closed the door.
“Apparently.”
Vincent studied him.
“What's this about?”
“My mother.”
The older man's smile faded.
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“Dante, Elena has been dead for twenty-five years.”
“Was she poisoned?”
Vincent's wineglass stopped halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
“Did someone poison my mother?”
Vincent set down the glass.
“Who told you that?”
Dante watched him carefully.
“An old diary.”
“Rose Caldwell.”
It was not a question.
Dante felt something tighten inside his chest.
“You remember her.”
“Of course. She stole from your father.”
“Did she?”
Vincent sighed.
“Son, grief makes people vulnerable to stories they want to believe.”
“Don't call me son.”
The words landed heavily.
Vincent straightened.
“I raised you after your father died.”
“You advised me.”
“I protected you.”
“From whom?”
Vincent said nothing.
Dante stepped closer.
“Did my mother have a daughter?”
Vincent's face hardened.
“No.”
“Think carefully.”
“I don't need to think.”
“Then why did Rose write that she took a baby from the hospital?”
Vincent moved behind his desk.
“Rose was unstable.”
“Was she unstable when she cooked for us?”
“Dante—”
“Was she unstable when my mother trusted her?”
Vincent's voice rose.
“Your mother trusted the wrong people!”
Silence followed.
Dante watched his uncle.
There it was.
Anger.
Not grief.
Not confusion.
Anger at a dead woman who had apparently discovered something she should not have known.
Dante stepped back.
“I'm reopening the family accounts.”
Vincent froze.
“What accounts?”
“All of them.”
“That's unnecessary.”
“I disagree.”
“You're making a mistake.”
Dante reached the door.
“Then I'll learn from it.”
He left without looking back.
At 8:47 p.m., Vincent Romano made a phone call.
The man who answered did not introduce himself.
Vincent spoke quietly.
“The girl has the diary.”
A pause.
“No. Dante doesn't know everything yet.”
Another pause.
Vincent looked toward the city.
“Then we need to find the second ledger before they do.”
He listened.
His expression darkened.
“No, you fool. We can't kill her.”
“Why not?” the voice asked.
Vincent closed his eyes.
“Because if Emma Caldwell dies, the trust becomes active.”
Silence.
Then the voice asked, “What trust?”
Vincent whispered the answer.
“The one that gives her control of everything.”
Across Chicago, Emma sat alone in a guest room at Dante's lakeside estate.
He had offered her protection after the shooting.
She had accepted reluctantly.
The room was larger than her entire apartment.
But its beauty meant nothing.
On the bedside table lay a photograph of Rose Caldwell.
Emma touched the frame.
“Who were you really, Mom?”
A soft knock interrupted her.
An elderly housekeeper stood in the doorway.
Her silver hair was pinned neatly behind her head.
“Miss Caldwell?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Margaret.”
Emma smiled faintly.
“Hello.”
Margaret stared at her.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, dear God.”
Emma stood.
“Are you all right?”
Margaret stepped closer.
“May I see your left wrist?”
Emma frowned.
“Why?”
“Please.”
Slowly, Emma extended her arm.
Margaret examined a small crescent-shaped birthmark near her wrist.
Her knees nearly buckled.
Emma caught her.
“What is it?”
Margaret began crying.
“I was there the night you were born.”
Emma felt the room tilt.
Margaret gripped her hand.
“And your mother made me promise that if you ever came home…”
She stopped.
Emma leaned forward.
May you like
“What?”
Margaret whispered, “I would show you where she hid the truth.”
