Chapter 3 - THE MAN DANTE CALLED FAMILY
Dante did not confront Vincent.
That surprised me.
Instead, he returned to the tower and spent four hours acting completely normal.
Normal for Dante involved terrifying six vice presidents, approving a shipping acquisition, rejecting two casino proposals, and drinking enough black coffee to medically concern me.
Vincent came into the office at 4:30.
I was at my desk.
He wore a navy suit.
Silver lion cufflinks.
I could not stop looking at them.
“Emily.”
“Mr. Rinaldi.”
“You look tired.”
“I cultivate the look.”
He smiled.
Vincent was sixty-two and handsome in the polished, silver-haired way that made people assume maturity meant goodness.
I had known him for six years.
He always remembered birthdays.
Sent flowers when employees lost parents.
Paid hospital bills without being asked.
He was the closest thing Dante had to a father.
When Dante’s own father was murdered at twenty-two, Vincent kept the organization from collapsing.
He stood beside Dante when Clara died.
Carried her coffin.
I wanted Nathan to be wrong.
Vincent walked into Dante’s office.
The door closed.
I stared at it.
Ten minutes.
Twenty.
Thirty.
No screaming.
No gunshot.
At forty-two minutes, Vincent emerged.
He looked exactly the same.
“Good night, Emily.”
“Good night.”
He entered the elevator.
The doors closed.
Dante immediately appeared.
“What did you ask him?” I whispered.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“I discussed a port contract.”
“You had the man who may have helped murder your wife in your office and discussed shipping?”
“Yes.”
“You are either brilliant or emotionally defective.”
“Both have been suggested.”
I stood.
“Why?”
“Because if Vincent knows we suspect him, evidence disappears.”
“He has had nine years to destroy evidence.”
“Then why is he still paying Hawthorne Grove?”
That stopped me.
“Because Nathan remembers.”
“Yes.”
“But why pay for treatment instead of…”
I couldn't finish.
Dante could.
“Killing him?”
I hated the word.
“Yes.”
Dante looked toward the elevator.
“Because Vincent may not have ordered the assault.”
“But the payments?”
“Could be guilt.”
“Or surveillance.”
“Yes.”
Neither option comforted me.
Dante had Sal brought in.
Alive.
Bruised but walking.
No warehouse execution.
Apparently the rug joke had saved more than fabric.
Sal sat in a conference room.
He looked at me.
“You.”
“Yes.”
“You are the reason I’m alive.”
“Please don't make that emotionally complicated.”
Dante stood behind him.
“Why did you send money to Mercer Care?”
Sal swallowed.
“Vincent told me.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
“Why?”
“He said the payments had to continue without touching foundation books.”
“What payments?”
“Patient care.”
“My brother?”
Sal looked at me.
“I never knew who.”
Dante leaned forward.
“Why steal three million?”
“I didn't steal all of it.”
That was not an inspiring defense.
“How much?”
“Four hundred thousand.”
Dante's face darkened.
Sal began talking quickly.
“The rest was transferred where Vincent ordered. Mercer. Lakeshore Consulting. North Avenue Security.”
“Why hide it?”
“I thought it was protection money.”
“For who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sal.”
“I swear.”
Then he said something important.
“Vincent never called the money Hawthorne.”
“What did he call it?”
Sal looked confused.
“Clara’s account.”
Dante stopped moving.
“What?”
“That's what he called the spreadsheet.”
Sal swallowed.
“Every quarter he said, ‘Make sure Clara’s account is paid.’”
Emily—that was me—felt the entire room change.
Dante spoke quietly.
“Did you ever see the spreadsheet?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Vincent’s private server.”
Dante looked at me.
I already knew what he wanted.
“No.”
“You are the best person in this building at finding hidden accounting records.”
“You’re asking me to hack your consigliere.”
“I’m asking you to audit my company.”
“Without telling the man who runs half of it.”
“Yes.”
I sighed.
“Fine.”
Dante almost smiled.
“Your enthusiasm is inspiring.”
“My brother costs eight thousand dollars a month. Enthusiasm is not in the budget.”
Sal stared.
Dante looked away.
I realized he was trying not to laugh again.
That felt strange.
Later that night, we found Clara’s account.
Not by hacking.
Vincent had hidden it inside archived charitable ledgers under a code.
C-0918.
Clara.
September eighteenth.
The date she died.
Payments ran nine years.
Hawthorne Grove.
A private investigator.
A storage company.
A lawyer.
And one retired Chicago police detective.
Total:
$2.8 million.
The missing three million had been replenishing it after Sal skimmed part and an internal audit threatened exposure.
“What was Vincent doing?” I whispered.
Dante stared at the list.
“Following Clara’s instructions.”
I turned.
“What?”
He pointed toward the oldest entry.
The account had been opened eleven days before Clara died.
Not after.
Authorized electronically by:
Clara Marino.
My mouth went dry.
“Your wife created it.”
Dante looked like someone had struck him.
“She knew Nathan existed before the bomb.”
“We already knew she met him.”
“No.”
He enlarged the date.
“She created a protection fund before she met him at the Calder.”
“How?”
Maybe Clara already knew a witness was in danger.
Maybe Nathan had not been the first.
We opened another archived file.
A scanned handwritten memo.
Clara’s handwriting.
Dante recognized it immediately.
If anything happens to me, Vincent knows what to do. Do not tell Dante until the boy remembers without pressure. He will tear the city apart and destroy the evidence.
I looked at Dante.
He looked offended.
“She knew you.”
“Yes.”
“She specifically instructed Vincent to keep the truth from you.”
“Yes.”
“For nine years.”
Dante pushed away from the desk.
His face was unreadable.
I understood something then.
If Vincent had followed Clara’s instructions, Nathan’s treatment payments were not proof he murdered her.
They might be proof he had protected her witness.
“Dante.”
He stood at the window.
“I spent nine years thinking nobody knew anything.”
“Apparently Clara knew a lot.”
“Yes.”
“Vincent too.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
That betrayal still existed.
Different crime.
Same wound.
“Why wouldn't Vincent tell you after all this time?”
“Because Nathan never gave a complete account.”
“Until now.”
Dante turned.
“Or because Vincent was protecting himself.”
Both possibilities remained.
Then my phone rang.
Hawthorne Grove.
I answered.
“Emily?”
Dr. Foster sounded frightened.
“What happened?”
“Nathan is fine.”
My knees weakened.
“Then what?”
“Someone requested his entire nine-year medical archive.”
“Who?”
“A law firm.”
“Name?”
She gave it.
Dante’s face changed before I finished repeating it.
He knew the firm.
“Who do they represent?” I asked.
Dante answered.
“Vincent Rinaldi.”
My pulse spiked.
Then Dr. Foster added:
“They didn't just request records.”
“What else?”
“They presented a guardianship petition.”
I stood.
“What?”
“Someone is trying to have Nathan declared incapable of making his own legal decisions.”
My vision narrowed.
“Who filed it?”
Dr. Foster paused.
“Vincent Rinaldi.”
Whatever Clara had asked him to do nine years earlier, Vincent had just crossed a line.
May you like
And this time, he had come directly for my brother.
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