Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO CAME BACK FROM THE GRAVE
Dorian did not ask Ara another question inside the dining room.
That frightened her more than anger would have.
He simply rose, buttoned his jacket, and looked toward the restaurant manager.
“Private office.”
The manager moved immediately.
Elizabeth stood too.
“Dorian, what exactly is happening?”
He did not look at her.
“Go home.”
Her face hardened.
“We came here together.”
“And now we’re leaving separately.”
The humiliation landed harder than Ara’s refusal had.
Elizabeth stared at Ara with an expression that promised consequences.
Then she picked up her purse and walked out.
Dorian waited until the steel entrance door closed behind her before turning toward Ara.
“Come with me.”
The Velour Room’s office was windowless and small, a sharp contrast to the expensive dining room. A desk occupied one wall. Two security monitors showed the hallway and rear entrance.
Dorian shut the door.
Ara remained standing.
“Marcus Vale died six years ago,” he said.
“So everyone believes.”
“I watched his coffin go into the ground.”
“Did you see his body?”
Silence.
Dorian’s eyes narrowed.
Ara already knew the answer.
“No.”
“The body was burned beyond recognition after the warehouse explosion. Identification came from dental records and a watch.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“He was my father.”
For several seconds, Dorian did not move.
Then his gaze dropped to Ara’s face as though he were searching for Marcus inside it.
“Your last name is Quinn.”
“My mother’s name.”
“Marcus never told me he had a daughter.”
“He never told anyone.”
Dorian walked to the desk but did not sit.
“What do you want?”
“The truth.”
“Truth is rarely the only thing people want when they come looking for me.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“That makes you unusual.”
“I want to know why my father disappeared.”
Dorian’s expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“Disappeared?”
Ara reached beneath her shirt collar.
Dorian’s hand moved toward his jacket.
She stopped.
“Relax.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You have your hand six inches from a gun.”
He slowly lowered it.
Ara pulled out a thin chain. A small brass key hung from it.
“My father gave me this eleven days ago.”
Dorian stared.
The room became very quiet.
“He’s alive?”
“He was eleven days ago.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
Dorian crossed the room in two strides.
Ara instinctively shifted her weight.
He noticed.
Again, that strange recognition passed through his eyes.
Marcus had taught her how to move when she was twelve.
Never cross your feet.
Never let someone stand between you and the exit.
Never stare at the weapon. Watch the shoulders.
Ara had believed those were eccentric lessons from an overprotective father.
Then he died.
Or supposedly died.
Dorian stopped a few feet away.
“Tell me everything.”
“Three weeks ago, I received an envelope at my apartment. No return address. Inside was a photograph of me leaving this restaurant.”
Dorian’s jaw tightened.
“Someone was watching you.”
“Yes.”
“There was nothing else?”
“One sentence.”
“What?”
Ara remembered the handwriting immediately.
If Dorian DeLorenzo sits at your table, tell him the grave was empty.
Dorian studied her.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t trust you.”
“And now?”
“I still don’t.”
Something close to amusement appeared in his eyes, then vanished.
“What changed tonight?”
“You recognized the way I stood.”
“Marcus taught me the same thing.”
That surprised her.
Dorian walked toward the desk.
“Your father trained me when I was seventeen.”
“To do what?”
“To survive my family.”
Ara had researched Dorian extensively, but much of his early life had vanished from public records.
His father, Antonio DeLorenzo, had controlled a criminal organization operating through shipping companies and construction contracts. Antonio died when Dorian was twenty-two.
Within five years, most of the illegal operations had disappeared.
Some said Dorian had modernized the organization.
Others said he had buried it.
“You loved him,” Ara said.
Dorian’s eyes returned to her.
It was not a question.
“He saved my life twice.”
“Then why would he fake his death and never contact you?”
“That is the question you should be asking him.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because eleven days ago he disappeared again.”
Ara placed the brass key on the desk.
“There was a storage number engraved on the back. I found the locker yesterday.”
“What was inside?”
“Nothing.”
Dorian frowned.
“It had been emptied.”
“By whom?”
“I thought maybe you.”
“I didn’t know you existed an hour ago.”
“Then someone else knew I had the key.”
Dorian looked toward the security monitor.
“What time did you arrive for work?”
“Four thirty.”
“Anyone unusual?”
“This restaurant specializes in unusual.”
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then the hallway monitor flickered.
Dorian’s expression instantly changed.
A man wearing a kitchen uniform appeared near the rear exit.
Ara recognized him.
“That’s not one of ours.”
Dorian was already reaching for his phone.
The screen went black.
Then the lights died.
Ara heard the office lock click electronically.
Someone had disabled the building system.
Dorian drew his gun.
“Behind me.”
“No.”
“Ara.”
“Someone came here because of me.”
“Exactly.”
A metallic scrape sounded outside.
Dorian moved beside the door.
Ara grabbed the heavy brass lamp from the desk.
He looked at it.
“What?”
“That’s your plan?”
“It weighs eight pounds.”
Despite everything, Dorian almost smiled.
Then footsteps stopped outside.
The door handle moved.
Once.
Twice.
A voice came through the wood.
“Ara Quinn?”
Her blood went cold.
Dorian raised his weapon.
The stranger continued.
“Marcus told me you’d be stubborn.”
Ara stepped forward.
Dorian blocked her with his arm.
“Who are you?” he called.
Silence.
Then something slid beneath the door.
A photograph.
Dorian waited before retrieving it.
The image showed Marcus Vale standing beside a black SUV.
The timestamp was from that morning.
Alive.
In Chicago.
Ara’s knees almost weakened.
On the back were five handwritten words.
DON’T TRUST THE HALE FAMILY.
Dorian stared at them.
Elizabeth Hale’s family.
May you like
His future in-laws.
Then a gunshot exploded in the hallway.
