Dante wanted to send his men.
I refused.
We argued for eleven minutes.
His mother timed us.
“You're both exhausting,” Isabella finally announced.
Dante ignored her.
“Union Station is public.”
“That is generally how train stations work.”
“Which makes it difficult to secure.”
“Then bring your terrifying friends.”
“You are not going.”
I folded my arms.
“Then you won't know which locker.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You could tell me.”
“I could.”
“But you won't.”
“Nope.”
Mama sat near the fireplace, oxygen tube beneath her nose.
“Bella.”
I looked at her.
“You too?”
“Your father died trying to keep you away from this.”
“And hiding didn't work.”
She flinched.
I immediately regretted the sharpness.
I crouched beside her.
“Mama, I don't want danger. I want answers.”
“I want my daughter alive.”
“So do I.”
Dante's voice came from behind me.
I turned.
He looked at Mama.
“I'll bring her back.”
My mother gave him a look that could have peeled paint.
“Michael once said something similar.”
The words hit him.
Good.
I wanted him to understand what his promises meant to her.
He crouched so they were eye level.
“Then I won't ask you to trust a promise.”
“What should I trust?”
“My actions.”
Mama studied him.
“Bring her home.”
“I will.”
An hour later, I sat beside Dante in the back of an SUV.
Two vehicles traveled ahead of us.
Another followed.
“You always travel like the president?”
“The president has more traffic problems.”
“You're very modest.”
“So I've been told.”
Chicago passed beyond the tinted windows.
For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he asked, “Why the café?”
“What?”
“You could work somewhere else.”
“Wow. Great career counseling.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I. Jobs don't fall from trees.”
“You're smart.”
“Smart doesn't erase hospital bills.”
He looked at me.
I regretted saying it.
But the words were already out.
“My mother got sick three years ago. Insurance covered some things. Not everything. I quit community college and started working more hours.”
“What were you studying?”
“Nursing.”
He nodded slowly.
“You liked it?”
“I liked helping people.”
“That seems to be a recurring problem for you.”
I looked at him.
“Was that a joke?”
“Possibly.”
“Careful. You might develop a personality.”
That earned me the smallest smile.
Then his face became serious.
“I'll pay your mother's medical expenses.”
“No.”
“I expected that.”
“Then why ask?”
“I didn't ask.”
I stared at him.
“There it is. Mafia boss again.”
“Bella, your family is in danger because of mine.”
“My mother was sick before yesterday.”
“That doesn't change what I can do.”
“And if I accept?”
“Nothing.”
“There's always something.”
“Not from me.”
His answer came too quickly to be manipulation.
That bothered me more.
Because I was beginning to believe him.
Union Station was crowded.
Dante's men spread out without drawing much attention, although six large men in expensive dark suits were never going to look completely ordinary.
I led Dante toward the lower corridor.
The old lockers had been replaced years ago.
My heart sank.
“They're gone.”
Dante looked around.
“Maybe not.”
He pointed toward a maintenance door.
An older station employee stood nearby.
After a short conversation and what I suspected was a significant amount of cash, we learned the original lockers had been relocated into a storage area during renovations.
We were escorted downstairs.
Dusty metal doors lined one wall.
My pulse quickened.
“Three seventeen.”
We found it near the end.
I touched the faded numbers.
Dad's favorite game.
Three plus one plus seven equaled eleven.
The number of letters in “Bella Marino.”
At least, that was what he'd told me when I was five.
I suddenly laughed.
Dante looked at me.
“What?”
“My father cheated.”
“How?”
“Bella Marino is eleven letters only if you don't count the space.”
“That's not cheating.”
“You didn't know my father.”
My laughter faded.
I inserted the pendant into a narrow slot beneath the lock.
Perfect fit.
Dante's posture changed immediately.
“Step back.”
I did.
He turned the pendant.
Click.
The locker opened.
Inside sat a small steel box.
Nothing else.
Dante lifted it carefully.
We moved to a private service room.
One of his men inspected the box for wires or anything dangerous.
Clean.
The pendant opened that too.
Inside were three things.
A flash drive.
A small ledger.
And a letter.
My name was written on the envelope.
I couldn't breathe.
“Bella?”
Dante's voice sounded far away.
I picked it up.
The paper trembled in my hands.
My father's handwriting.
I hadn't seen it in eleven years.
My beautiful girl,
If you're reading this, then I failed to keep the past away from you.
I'm sorry.
I know your mother will have protected you as long as she could. Don't blame her for the lies. I asked her to tell them.
The men I worked with made choices I came to regret. Some were good men who convinced themselves bad things were necessary. Others were simply bad men wearing expensive suits.
Carlo Vescari is the second kind.
I found proof that Carlo stole money, murdered two of Vittorio Romano's men, and arranged attacks he blamed on rival families. He wanted a war because war made him powerful.
The proof is on the drive.
But there is something else.
Vittorio Romano did not order the violence Carlo claimed he did.
If Vittorio is still alive, give him this evidence.
If he isn't, give it to Isabella.
She will know what to do.
And Bella—
Do not inherit my fear.
You are better than the world I worked in.
You were five years old when I hid this box. You complained because I wouldn't buy you a chocolate doughnut until you counted to fifty without skipping thirty-seven.
You skipped it three times.
You were furious with me.
It is one of my favorite memories.
I love you.
Whatever anyone tells you about me, remember this:
The best thing I ever did was come home to you and your mother.
Dad
I stopped reading because I couldn't see.
Dante quietly took the letter before my tears could soak it.
I turned away.
For eleven years, I'd wanted one more conversation with my father.
One more hug.
One more stupid Sunday morning.
Instead, I had a sheet of paper.
Dante didn't touch me immediately.
I appreciated that.
Then my shoulders began shaking.
His hand settled lightly against my back.
I leaned into him before I could think better of it.
He wrapped his arms around me.
Not possessive.
Not demanding.
Just there.
I cried against the chest of a man I'd known less than a day.
And Dante Romano held me like there was nowhere else he needed to be.
Eventually, I stepped away.
“Don't tell anyone I did that.”
“Did what?”
I looked up.
His expression was perfectly serious.
“Thank you.”
One of his men entered.
“Boss.”
Dante straightened.
“What?”
“We have company.”
The grief disappeared beneath adrenaline.
“Vescari?”
“Three men entered through the south service corridor.”
Dante grabbed my hand.
“We're leaving.”
We moved fast.
Two guards led.
Two followed.
Halfway through the corridor, a loud crash echoed behind us.
People shouted.
Dante pulled me through a side door.
“Stay behind me.”
“You don't have to tell me twice.”
We reached a loading area.
Our SUV was waiting.
Then a man stepped from behind a concrete column.
Dante moved instantly, shoving me backward.
His guards tackled the stranger.
Another man appeared near the exit.
Chaos exploded.
I crouched behind the vehicle.
Someone grabbed my coat from behind.
I screamed.
A hand covered my mouth.
I bit it.
Hard.
The man cursed.
I drove my elbow backward the way Dad once taught me.
He loosened his grip.
I ran.
“Bella!”
Dante reached me.
His face was murderous.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
He checked anyway.
His hands moved over my shoulders, my arms, my face.
“I'm fine.”
He pulled me against him for half a second.
Then released me.
His men had restrained two attackers.
The third had escaped.
Dante walked toward one of them.
“Who sent you?”
The man laughed through a bloody lip.
“You already know.”
“Why does Carlo want the drive?”
The man's smile widened.
“Because it doesn't just destroy him.”
Dante went still.
“What does that mean?”
“It destroys you too.”
I looked at Dante.
The prisoner continued.
“Ask your father what happened the night Michael Marino died.”
Dante's face emptied.
His father?
I frowned.
“Your father is dead.”
Dante didn't answer.
My stomach turned.
“Dante.”
He looked at me.
I knew before he said anything.
Vittorio Romano wasn't dead.
Not then.
Not now.
Another secret.
Another lie.
“Where is he?” I whispered.
Dante's jaw tightened.
“In Italy.”
I stared at him.
“And you knew.”
“Yes.”
My father's letter had told me to give the evidence to Vittorio if he was alive.
Dante had watched me read those words.
And said nothing.
I stepped away from him.
“You lied to me.”
“I was going to explain.”
“When?”
“When we were safe.”
“We're never safe!”
My voice echoed through the concrete garage.
I pointed toward the box.
“My father died over this. Your father is alive. And apparently he knows what happened.”
Dante looked at his men.
“Prepare the plane.”
I froze.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“We're going to ask him.”