Chapter 3 - THE BAKERY THAT NEVER CLOSED
Miguel Reyes died on a Tuesday morning in February.
At least, that was what I had believed.
The police told me he had been caught in a shooting outside a Brooklyn bakery.
They said the intended target was a man involved in organized crime.
Miguel had simply been in the wrong place.
The body had been badly injured.
Identification was made using documents found at the scene and other evidence that I had never questioned.
I had been twenty-seven.
Sophie was two.
I was drowning in grief, bills, and fear.
When Teresa offered us a home, I accepted without asking why a wealthy stranger cared.
Now I sat across from her in the Moretti sitting room, realizing that almost everything I'd believed might be wrong.
"Miguel wasn't supposed to be at that bakery," Teresa began.
I stared.
"He was meeting someone."
"Who?"
She looked toward Dante.
He answered.
"My father."
I felt cold.
"Your father?"
"Salvatore Moretti."
I knew the name.
Everyone on Long Island knew it.
Salvatore had controlled the Moretti organization before Dante inherited it.
He'd died two years earlier.
Dante continued.
"Miguel had discovered discrepancies in a shipment of medical equipment."
I frowned.
"What kind of discrepancies?"
"Containers listed as carrying hospital supplies were being diverted through private warehouses."
"Why?"
Dante's expression darkened.
"That's what Miguel wanted to know."
Teresa clasped her hands.
"He contacted Salvatore because he believed someone inside the company was stealing."
I stared.
"Miguel never told me."
"He was afraid."
"Of what?"
Dante looked away.
"Of the people involved."
The bakery meeting had been arranged for seven in the morning.
Salvatore never arrived.
Instead, gunfire erupted outside.
A man was found dead.
Miguel disappeared.
The authorities concluded the body belonged to him.
But Teresa had never been convinced.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I whispered.
Her eyes filled.
"Because I didn't have proof."
I laughed bitterly.
"You let me bury an empty coffin."
Teresa flinched.
"I know."
"You watched me tell my daughter her father was in heaven."
Her face crumpled.
"I'm sorry."
I stood.
"Sorry?"
My voice rose.
"You knew there was a chance he was alive, and you said nothing?"
Dante stepped forward.
"Isabel—"
I turned on him.
"Did you know?"
He held my gaze.
"I knew the identification had been questioned."
My heart broke all over again.
"And you never told me."
He swallowed.
"No."
For a moment, I hated them both.
Their money.
Their secrets.
Their ability to decide which truths ordinary people deserved to hear.
I looked toward Sophie.
She had fallen asleep on the couch with Bruno beside her.
My little girl had spent three years asking why her father never came home.
And now someone was knocking on her window.
Someone who knew our names.
Someone who sounded exactly like Miguel.
I turned back to Dante.
"If my husband is alive, I want to find him."
Dante nodded.
"So do I."
"Not because he's connected to your family."
He looked at me.
"Then why?"
"Because Sophie deserves the truth."
Dante's expression softened.
For a moment, he looked less like a mafia boss and more like a man who understood what it meant to lose someone.
Then he said:
"Agreed."
At three in the morning, Marcus Hale entered Dante's study.
He closed the door.
Removed his phone.
And sent a message.
The woman recognized the voice.
A reply appeared.
Did Moretti tell her everything?
Marcus typed:
Not yet.
May you like
The response came immediately.
Then make sure he never does.
