Chapter 7 - THE QUEEN AT THE TABLE
Victor expected me to hide.
Dante expected me to hide too.
The difference was that this time, he asked instead of ordered.
We sat in a conference room at Caruso Atlantic while federal investigators reviewed Lucia’s evidence.
“I want you somewhere safe,” Dante said.
“I know.”
“Will you go?”
“No.”
His jaw flexed.
“All right.”
Nico stared at him.
“That’s it?”
Dante looked irritated.
“She said no.”
I almost smiled.
Progress.
The evidence was devastating, but there was a problem.
Much of it was twelve years old.
Prosecutors needed something current.
Victor’s attempt to kidnap me could help, but Anthony refused to testify until his brother was safe.
Then Victor made his next mistake.
He invited me to dinner.
The message arrived through an attorney.
Mrs. Caruso has business interests independent of her husband. Mr. Salerno wishes to discuss the waterfront vote.
Dante read it.
“No.”
I raised an eyebrow.
He exhaled.
“Sorry. My opinion is no.”
“Better.”
“Elena.”
“I’m going.”
He walked to the window.
Every muscle in his back tightened.
“This is exactly what he wants.”
“No. He wants the woman from that video. The humiliated wife who’ll punish her husband by helping his enemy.”
Dante turned.
“And?”
“I’m going to give him what he thinks he wants.”
The dinner took place at a private club in Manhattan.
Federal agents occupied two nearby rooms.
I wore a recording device beneath my dress.
Dante hated every second.
Before I entered, he stopped me in the hallway.
“If you say the word, this ends.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
His eyes held mine.
“I love you.”
I waited for the old instinct—the expectation that I should answer because he had said it.
It never came.
He simply nodded and stepped away.
Victor Salerno was sixty, silver-haired and charming.
He stood when I entered.
“Elena.”
“Victor.”
“You’re even more beautiful when you’re angry.”
“Careful. That sounds like flirting.”
“I understand your husband believes he owns the exclusive rights.”
I sat.
“My husband is learning a great deal about ownership.”
Victor smiled.
“Good.”
Dinner arrived.
Neither of us ate much.
He offered me forty million dollars for my Caruso Atlantic shares.
I laughed.
“Not enough?”
“Not even interesting.”
“Then tell me what is.”
“The truth.”
“About?”
“Lucia.”
His fork stopped.
Only for a fraction of a second.
But I saw it.
Victor smiled again.
“Ancient history.”
“She’s alive.”
The smile vanished.
There.
We had him.
“Careful, Elena.”
“Why?”
“Some ghosts survive because intelligent people leave them buried.”
“Is that what you told her?”
Victor leaned closer.
“You think Dante is different from me?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“You’re right about one thing.”
“What?”
“He used to think power meant never admitting someone mattered.”
Victor smiled.
“And now?”
“Now he knows better.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed.
“That makes him weaker.”
“No. It makes you predictable.”
For the first time, anger surfaced.
“You walked in here wearing a wire because your husband told you to?”
My blood chilled.
How did he know?
Victor leaned back.
“Relax. I’m not going to search you.”
He raised his wine.
“I want them listening.”
Federal agents were hearing every word.
Victor knew.
Which meant he wanted to send a message.
“Tell Dante the terminals are mine.”
“They aren’t.”
“They will be.”
“Why?”
“Because tomorrow morning, one of his companies will be connected to the disappearance of a city inspector.”
I kept my expression neutral.
“What inspector?”
“Exactly.”
He smiled.
A setup.
Victor planned to frame Dante.
I stood.
“Dinner’s over.”
Victor’s expression remained pleasant.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“You should.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s advice.”
I walked toward the door.
Then he said something that stopped me.
“Your husband never told you why you couldn’t have children, did he?”
I turned.
My entire body went cold.
Dante and I had tried for years.
Tests.
Doctors.
Treatments.
Eventually, I had stopped because every failed month felt like grief.
“What did you say?”
Victor smiled.
“Ask Dante about the clinic.”
I left.
Dante was waiting outside with two agents.
He saw my face.
“What happened?”
“What clinic?”
Confusion.
“The fertility clinic.”
“Elena?”
“Victor said you know why we couldn’t have children.”
Dante looked genuinely lost.
“I don’t.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.”
One of the agents approached.
“We need to move. Salerno just left through another exit.”
But I couldn’t move.
Years of pain had opened inside me.
Dante took my hand.
I almost pulled away.
Then he said, “Whatever this is, we find out together.”
Together.
Not for me.
Not instead of me.
Together.
We drove directly to the clinic we had used four years earlier.
It was closed, but Dante’s attorney reached the former medical director.
By midnight, we had an answer.
Our original test results had been altered.
I stared at the records.
“There was nothing wrong with me.”
The doctor shook his head.
“No.”
I looked at Dante.
“Or you.”
“No.”
Someone had falsified the results.
Why?
The doctor swallowed.
“There was another irregularity.”
My heart began pounding.
“What?”
“During your final treatment cycle, one viable embryo was recorded.”
I gripped the chair.
“I was told there were none.”
“That was false.”
Dante stood.
“What happened to it?”
The doctor looked terrified.
“I don’t know.”
I could barely breathe.
Then he added:
“But according to the archived transfer log, somebody removed it from storage four years ago.”
Dante’s hand closed around mine.
“Who?”
The doctor turned the screen toward us.
The authorization carried a name.
Not Victor Salerno.
May you like
Not a clinic employee.
Beatrice Caruso.
