Chapter 5 - Secrets in the Library“What did she say to you?”
The words slipped out of my mouth before I could filter them through the mandatory layers of estate subservience.
Dante stood up slowly, still holding Sophia’s hand in his large, calloused palm. The warmth that had flickered in his dark eyes moments before had vanished back behind the iron gates of his usual demeanor, though the coldness lacked its former sharp edge.
He looked down at Sophia, who was happily inspecting the gold cufflink on his sleeve, then back at me.
“That,” Dante said quietly, his voice carrying an unspoken weight, “is between me and your daughter, Miss Bennett.”
“Mr. Falcone, if she said something inappropriate—if she bothered you—”
“She didn't bother me,” he interrupted, cutting me off smoothly. He looked back down at Sophia. “Are you hungry?”
Sophia nodded vigorously. “Cookies lose. I want apples.”
Dante gave a single, imperceptible nod. He turned his head toward the shadowy corner of the hallway where his head of security, a hulking wall of a man named Marcus, stood frozen.
“Marcus,” Dante commanded.
“Boss?” Marcus stepped forward immediately, looking as though he had just been ordered to defuse a bomb.
“Have the kitchen prepare a plate of sliced apples, honey, and whole milk. Bring it to my private study in ten minutes.”
Marcus blinked twice, his brain clearly short-circuiting. “Your... your private study, Boss? Not the staff dining room?”
“Did I stutter?” Dante asked softly.
“No, Boss. Right away.” Marcus hurried off down the hall, practically tripping over his own boots in his haste to escape the surreal scene.
Dante looked back at me, his gaze analytical and piercing. “You. Follow us.”
I had no choice. I trailed behind them like a condemned prisoner marching to the gallows, my mind racing a mile a minute. What on earth had my three-year-old whisper into the ear of a man who controlled half the shipping ports on the East Coast? Was it a silly toddler observation? Or had she somehow stumbled onto something far more dangerous?
We entered Dante’s private study—a cavernous, mahogany-paneled room lined with leather-bound first editions, heavy velvet drapes, and a massive oak desk covered in encrypted laptops and ledger books. It was a room where syndicate capos were broken down and deals worth tens of millions were struck in hushed tones.
Sophia, completely unimpressed by the intimidation factor of the room, waddled straight over to a deep leather armchair, climbed up with unassisted determination, and curled her legs underneath her.
Dante walked over to his desk, but instead of sitting behind it, he stood by the large bay window, watching Sophia with an expression that hovered somewhere between fascination and profound melancholy.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Marcus entered bearing a silver tray loaded with fresh apples, honey, and milk. He placed it carefully on the coffee table near Sophia, casting one deeply bewildered glance at me before scurrying out of the room and clicking the heavy door shut behind him.
Sophia immediately dug into the apples, dipping them generously into the honey while humming a happy, formless little tune.
Dante walked slowly across the room, stopping a few feet away from me. The silence between us stretched, thick and heavy, until he finally broke it.
“You’ve worked here for eight months, Miss Bennett,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a register meant only for my ears. “You keep your head down. You do your work impeccably. And you never ask questions.”
“That’s the job description, Mr. Falcone,” I replied steadily, refusing to shrink back under his gaze.
“Indeed it is,” he murmured. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Most people who enter this house want something. Money, leverage, protection, or a way out. You... you just want to pay medical bills and keep your daughter fed.”
“I’m an honest worker, sir.”
“Honest workers don't usually raise children who walk up to armed syndicate bosses and diagnose their emotional state,” Dante noted dryly, a faint, ghost-like smirk touching the corner of his mouth.
“She speaks before she thinks,” I said quickly, my protective instincts flaring up. “If she said something out of line—if she upset you—”
“She didn't upset me,” Dante interrupted, his tone suddenly sharpening, turning cold and heavy. He took a step closer, towering over me. “She told me the truth. A truth I haven't been willing to admit to myself or anyone else since the night my wife was murdered.”
I held my breath. “What... what did she tell you?”
Dante looked past me to where Sophia was happily licking honey off her fingers.
“She didn't just tell me I looked lonely,” Dante said softly, the words dragging out of him like pulling teeth. “She patted my hand, looked me right in the eye, and whispered: ‘You shouldn't walk to the dead door anymore. Mama wants you to play with me.’”
The blood drained entirely from my face.
The locked door. The shrine to his dead wife. Sophia had called it the dead door. And she had spoken of Carmela—a woman she had never met, whose face she had never seen—with a chilling, innocent clarity that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up.
Before I could process the sheer impossibility of it, the heavy oak door of the study burst open with a deafening crash.
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Marcus stumbled inward, bleeding heavily from a jagged cut across his forehead, holding a smoking pistol in his hand.
“Boss!” Marcus screamed, panting wildly, his eyes wide with panic. “We’ve been breached! The southern perimeter has been hit! They’re coming through the gardens!”
