Chapter 3 - The Shadow in the MirrorBy 3:00 a.m., the storm over Long Island had reached its peak, howling through the ancient oaks surrounding the estate.
Inside the third-floor suite, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Marco had brought up three additional security guards, who were stationed outside the hallway doors, while Dante stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out into the dark, rain-drenched courtyard below.
I sat on the velvet sofa beside Sophie, gently running my fingers through my daughter's soft brown curls. Bruno remained at my feet, his dark head resting over my ankle, his eyes tracking every movement Dante made across the room.
"Who was it, Dante?" I asked quietly, breaking the heavy silence. "Who killed Miguel?"
Dante didn't turn around right away. He took a slow sip from his crystal glass, watching the lightning flash against the glass.
"Three years ago, my syndicate was going through a major transition," Dante explained, his baritone steady and cold. "My father had passed away, and several regional capos believed I was too young, too modern, to hold the family together. The loudest voice among them was my uncle, Victor Moretti."
I went stiff. "Victor?"
Victor Moretti was sixty-two, a broad, intimidating man who managed the syndicate's private shipping terminals in New Jersey. He visited the estate twice a month for family dinners, always sitting at the head of the table beside Dante’s mother, Teresa. He was the man who had bought Sophie a massive stuffed bear for her fourth birthday, the man who always smiled warmly at me when I served his coffee in the dining room.
"Victor claimed he was loyal," Dante continued, turning around to face me, his shadow stretching long across the Persian rug. "But Miguel found proof that Victor was secretly partnering with a rival cartel out of Philadelphia, using our port terminals to traffic unauthorized contraband and routing thirty million dollars of syndicate capital through offshore accounts in Panama."
"And Miguel found the ledger," I breathed, the horrific picture finally assembling itself in my mind.
"Miguel created a duplicate digital file and encrypted it using a forty-eight-digit key," Dante said, taking a step toward the sofa. "Victor realized Miguel was onto him, so he ordered the hit in Brooklyn to shut him down. But Victor didn't get the key. He searched Miguel's body, searched his office, but found nothing. He knew Miguel had a wife and child, but my mother moved you onto this estate before Victor could touch you."
"Your mother knew?"
"My mother is a Moretti," Dante answered simply. "She suspected Victor was behind Miguel's death, but without the encrypted ledger, she couldn't prove it to the syndicate council. If she had accused Victor without proof, it would have started a civil war that would have torn this family apart. So she kept you close, protected you, and waited for Victor to make his mistake."
A cold, bitter laugh escaped my throat. "She used us as bait."
"She protected you," Dante corrected firmly, stepping closer until he was standing right in front of me. He dropped to one knee, bringing his dark eyes level with mine. "My mother made sure you had a home, health insurance, and security. But she made one mistake: she believed Victor would eventually give up looking for the key."
"And he didn't," I whispered, tears burning my eyes. "He spent six nights crawling through a Prohibition tunnel, tapping on my five-year-old daughter's window, waiting for me to leave her alone so he could search her room."
"He didn't just crawl through the tunnel, Elena," Dante said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that cut through the thunder outside. "Bruno caught a piece of his coat in the tunnel tonight. It was torn from a custom-tailored dark cashmere overcoat."
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Dante reached into his pocket and pulled out a torn scrap of black cloth lined with silver silk.
"Victor is arriving at this estate in four hours for our annual dinner," Dante revealed, his gray eyes flashing with a terrifying, lethal light. "He thinks he's coming to celebrate fifty years of the Moretti Group. He has no idea that he's coming to his own execution."
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