Chapter 3 - THE NAME SHE BURIED
Marco didn't question Sera at the ballroom.
That frightened her.
Anger would have been easier.
Instead, he waited until the photographer had been removed, finished shaking hands with donors, thanked the host, and walked through the lobby as though a stranger had not just suggested the woman guarding him was a lie.
Only inside the armored SUV did he speak.
"Who are you?"
"Sera Voss."
"I already paid someone to tell me that."
"Then ask for a refund."
Carlo sat across from them.
Marco's eyes never left her.
"What did he mean?"
"I don't know."
Carlo laughed once.
"You expect us to believe that?"
Sera looked at him.
"No. I don't care what you believe."
Carlo leaned forward.
Marco lifted one finger.
Carlo stopped.
Marco's voice stayed quiet.
"Take us to the house."
Sera turned toward the window.
"No."
Marco stared.
"What?"
"My apartment."
"Until I know what happened tonight—"
"I'm not your prisoner."
"And I'm not leaving you alone if somebody recognizes you and I don't know why."
"That's your problem."
"No," Marco said. "Tonight it became ours."
The car went silent.
Sera hated that he was right.
Marco's house stood in Lincoln Park behind limestone walls and security subtle enough to cost a fortune.
Sera entered reluctantly.
She lasted eleven minutes before trying to leave.
Marco intercepted her in the library.
"I found something."
A folder rested on the table.
Sera didn't touch it.
Marco opened it.
A photograph stared upward.
A younger Sera.
Seventeen.
Bruised.
Standing outside a courthouse beside a dark-haired teenage boy.
Marco tapped the boy.
"Eli Voss."
Her face changed.
Barely.
Marco saw it.
"My brother."
"He died twelve years ago."
"I know."
"He worked for Anthony Moretti."
"He didn't work for anyone."
"The records say—"
"The records lie."
Marco went silent.
Sera crossed to the window.
"Eli was twenty. I was seventeen. He got me out of a foster house where the man running it liked locked doors too much."
Marco said nothing.
"He worked nights. Warehouses. Deliveries. Anything. One night he took a courier job."
"For Moretti."
"He didn't know that."
Sera looked at him.
"He found something in the van. A ledger. Names, payments, cops, judges, shipping routes. He panicked. He called me."
Marco understood before she finished.
"They killed him."
"Officially, he overdosed."
"You don't believe that."
"I saw his hands."
Marco frowned.
"He had broken knuckles. Burns on two fingers. Someone questioned him before he died."
The room became very quiet.
"And the ledger?" Marco asked.
"Never found."
"Why did you disappear?"
"Because two men came looking for me three days after the funeral."
"What happened?"
Sera's gaze hardened.
"Those were my assault charges."
Marco finally understood.
The two hospitalized men.
"You've been hiding from Moretti for twelve years."
"I've been living."
"Same thing?"
"Some days."
Marco closed the folder.
Anthony Moretti was not just another Chicago businessman.
He had spent twenty years building influence through unions, trucking companies, construction contracts, and men who disappeared when contracts failed.
More importantly, he was Marco's most dangerous rival.
Marco looked at Sera.
"Why Chicago?"
"Because eventually I got tired of running."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
A knock interrupted them.
Carlo entered.
His expression was grim.
"The photographer talked."
Marco turned.
"Who hired him?"
"Moretti."
Sera felt nothing.
Or tried to.
Carlo continued.
"He had instructions to photograph Marco's security and identify the woman working near him."
"Me," Sera said.
Carlo nodded.
"Specifically you."
Marco's jaw tightened.
"What does Moretti want with her?"
"He didn't know."
Sera almost laughed.
Men like Moretti always made sure the person doing the dangerous work knew nothing.
Marco walked toward her.
"You're staying here."
"No."
"Sera."
"No."
"Someone who murdered your brother knows exactly where you are."
"He has for weeks, apparently."
"And you think your apartment is safe?"
"I think I decide where I sleep."
Marco stopped inches away.
Sera looked up at him.
She expected command.
Instead he said quietly, "Then let me ask."
That surprised her.
"Stay."
She searched his face.
Not Marco Cavallo the employer.
Not the man Chicago whispered about.
Just a man asking.
"One night," she said.
"One."
She slept in a guest room with a chair wedged beneath the door handle.
At 3:14 a.m., glass broke downstairs.
Sera was awake instantly.
She pulled the small knife she kept inside her boot.
Another sound.
A muted grunt.
She moved into the hallway.
Marco's bedroom door opened simultaneously.
He was barefoot, wearing black pants, a gun low at his side.
Their eyes met.
No words.
They moved.
At the bottom of the staircase, a security guard lay unconscious.
The kitchen door stood open.
Cold October air moved through it.
Sera saw the shadow first.
"Down."
Marco dropped.
A suppressed shot buried itself in the wall.
Sera crossed the room before the shooter could reset.
She slammed his wrist against the counter.
The weapon fell.
He struck her.
Pain exploded through her cheek.
Marco moved.
Sera shouted.
"No!"
He stopped.
She swept the attacker's leg, drove him to the floor, twisted his arm behind his back and pressed his face against the tile.
Marco stared.
The attacker laughed.
Blood covered his teeth.
"Still fast, little bird."
Sera froze.
Nobody had called her that since Eli.
She grabbed his collar.
"Who told you that name?"
The man smiled.
"Your brother."
Her hand loosened.
Marco saw the shock.
May you like
The attacker whispered two words.
"He's alive."
