By eight o'clock, Dante's penthouse had become a command center.
Marco Santoro stood beside the floor-to-ceiling windows, speaking quietly into his phone.
Two attorneys occupied the dining table.
A private investigator reviewed security footage from the parking garage where Harper had been attacked.
Dante stood at the kitchen counter, staring at a cup of coffee he had not touched.
He had left Harper only after her doctor confirmed that she was stable and would remain under observation.
Before leaving, he had arranged for a security officer to remain outside her room.
Not inside.
Harper had insisted on that distinction.
“I don't want to wake up surrounded by your men,” she had told him.
Dante had almost smiled.
Even injured, she was still issuing instructions.
Marco ended his call.
“Evelyn Reed is safe. She's having breakfast. Our people are watching the building.”
“Does she know about Harper?”
“Not yet.”
“Good. Harper wants to tell her herself.”
Marco nodded.
Then his expression became serious.
“Victor is asking for you.”
“Let him ask.”
“He says the Harbor Point investors are threatening to withdraw.”
Dante turned.
“Interesting timing.”
Marco placed a folder on the counter.
“We recovered footage from the garage.”
Dante opened it.
The first image showed Harper walking toward her car at 11:42 p.m.
She carried her laptop bag over one shoulder and a paper grocery bag in her other hand.
Dante remembered telling her to go home at six.
She had stayed late to finish the acquisition review.
The next image showed a dark sedan entering the garage.
Two men stepped out.
Harper stopped.
One of them grabbed her bag.
The footage ended when the men dragged her beyond the camera's view.
Dante closed the folder.
“Who are they?”
“We have a partial plate. One of them may be connected to Bellini's transportation company.”
“May be?”
“We're checking.”
Dante looked toward the window.
For years, he had solved problems through intimidation.
He knew how quickly a whispered threat could become a violent confrontation.
But Harper had asked him not to kill anyone.
More importantly, she had asked him to listen.
“Give the footage to the detective handling her case,” he said.
Marco blinked.
“Police?”
“Yes.”
“Dante, Victor has connections inside the department.”
“Then our attorneys will document every transfer. I want evidence that survives a courtroom.”
Marco studied him.
“You're doing this differently.”
Dante picked up his coffee.
“Apparently.”
Across the city, Harper woke to the sound of her phone ringing.
It was not her phone.
It belonged to the hospital.
A nurse stood beside her bed.
“Your mother is calling. Would you like to speak with her?”
Harper's stomach tightened.
“Yes.”
She accepted the receiver.
“Mom?”
“Harper? Sweetheart, why is a very polite young man sitting in the lobby asking whether I need anything?”
Harper closed her eyes.
Of course.
Dante's version of discreet protection apparently involved assigning a personal security detail to a seventy-year-old woman who considered the neighborhood bingo tournament a dangerous activity.
“It's a work thing, Mom.”
“A work thing?”
“Yes.”
“Did your boss finally realize you need a vacation?”
Harper almost laughed.
The movement sent pain through her ribs.
“Something like that.”
Her mother paused.
“Harper, are you all right?”
The question nearly broke her.
Evelyn Reed had raised her daughter alone after Harper's father died when she was twelve.
She had worked two jobs, skipped meals, and worn the same winter coat for eleven years so Harper could attend college.
Now Harper paid for her mother's care, medical appointments, and the small comforts Evelyn had never allowed herself.
The thought of Victor's men approaching her mother made Harper's hands shake.
“I'm in the hospital,” she admitted.
Silence.
Then Evelyn whispered, “What happened?”
“I was hurt. But I'm going to be okay.”
“I'm coming.”
“Mom, please don't. I have a concussion, and I need you to stay where you are.”
“Harper—”
“Dante is here.”
Another silence.
“Your boss?”
“Yes.”
“The one who sends flowers on my birthday?”
Harper stared at the ceiling.
Dante had been sending Evelyn flowers for two years.
Harper had never asked him to.
“He's helping me.”
Evelyn exhaled.
“Then tell him I expect him to take good care of you.”
Harper's eyes burned.
“I will.”
When the call ended, a detective entered her room.
Detective Rachel Bennett was in her early forties, with tired eyes and a notebook already open.
“Ms. Reed, I'm investigating your assault. Your doctor says you can speak for a few minutes if you feel up to it.”
Harper nodded.
Bennett pulled up a chair.
“Your employer provided security footage.”
“Of course he did.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I'm surprised he didn't personally deliver the suspects.”
The detective's mouth twitched.
“Mr. Moretti has a reputation.”
“People are more complicated than their reputations.”
Bennett studied her.
“Sometimes.”
Harper described the attack.
She explained that the men had demanded her laptop, searched her bag, and repeatedly asked where she had hidden the original Harbor Point documents.
She remembered one of them saying Victor's name.
But there was something else.
Something she had not told Dante.
“The taller man said they weren't supposed to hurt me that badly.”
Bennett stopped writing.
“What exactly did he say?”
Harper swallowed.
“He said, ‘Bellini wanted her scared, not dead. If Moretti finds out, we're finished.’”
The detective looked up.
“Did they mention anyone else?”
Harper hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Someone called the commissioner.”
Bennett's expression changed.
“Are you certain?”
“That's what I heard.”
The detective wrote something down.
“I'm going to need you to preserve anything connected to those documents.”
Harper gave a small, painful smile.
“I've been trying to do that.”
At eleven thirty, Dante returned.
He carried a paper bag from Harper's favorite bakery.
She looked at it.
“Please tell me that's not another security officer.”
“Blueberry muffins.”
“Acceptable.”
He placed the bag on her bedside table.
Then he noticed the detective's card.
“You spoke to Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.”
“All of it?”
Harper looked away.
Dante sat down.
“Harper.”
She sighed.
“You're going to hate this.”
“Try me.”
“I made a copy of the Harbor Point records before I left the office.”
“Where?”
“In a place Victor wouldn't think to look.”
“Which is?”
She glanced toward the paper bag.
“My apartment.”
Dante stared at her.
“You said they searched your apartment.”
“They searched it for a laptop.”
“Where did you hide the records?”
Harper looked almost embarrassed.
“In a cookbook.”
Dante blinked.
“A cookbook?”
“My mother's old copy of The Joy of Cooking. There's a false compartment inside the back cover.”
For the first time in nearly twelve hours, Dante laughed.
It was brief and disbelieving.
“You hid evidence worth millions of dollars inside a cookbook?”
“Victor doesn't strike me as a man who makes his own dinner.”
Dante shook his head.
Then his expression softened.
“You could have told me.”
“I didn't know who I could trust.”
The words landed between them.
Dante looked down at his hands.
He had given Harper access to every legitimate business he owned.
He had trusted her with confidential contracts, sensitive financial information, and decisions that affected hundreds of employees.
Yet he had never made it clear that she could come to him when she was afraid.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
Harper stared at him.
“What?”
“I should have noticed something was wrong.”
“You aren't responsible for every terrible thing that happens in Chicago.”
“No. But I am responsible for the people who work for me.”
She watched him carefully.
“Then help me finish what I started.”
“What do you need?”
“A forensic accountant. Someone independent. And an attorney who doesn't answer to Victor.”
“You'll have both.”
“And I want access to the original acquisition records.”
Dante nodded.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Stop looking at me like I'm going to disappear.”
He went quiet.
Harper's voice softened.
“I'm still here.”
Dante reached for her hand.
“I know.”
But neither of them noticed the man standing near the nurses' station.
He wore a maintenance uniform and carried a toolbox.
His phone was pressed against his ear.
“She has the documents,” he whispered.
A pause.
Then a voice answered.
“Find out where.”
The man looked toward Harper's room.
“And the boss?”
“Leave Moretti to me.”