Chapter 2 - The Name She Buried

Elena had imagined hearing her father’s name in a hundred different places.

A courthouse. A cemetery. A police station. Perhaps one day in a newspaper article finally admitting that Marco Russo had not been the thief people called him.

She had never imagined hearing it from Dante Moretti while his six-year-old son held her hand.

Nico locked the dining-room doors.

“Leo goes upstairs now.”

“No,” Leo said.

Dante crouched in front of him.

“This is not a negotiation.”

Leo’s chin lifted in a way that looked painfully like his father.

“She’s scared.”

Elena looked away.

“I’m not.”

Leo squeezed her fingers.

“You are.”

Dante’s expression softened only for his son.

“Mara will stay with you. Two guards will be outside the door. I’ll come up as soon as I can.”

Leo glanced at Elena.

“Will she come too?”

Dante waited.

Elena understood the question behind the silence.

Could she be trusted near his child?

“I’ll stay here,” she said.

Leo did not like it, but he finally went.

When the door closed, Dante laid Elena’s note beside the tablet.

“Tell me everything.”

“No.”

Nico stared at her.

Dante’s voice remained quiet.

“That symbol appeared on a threat placed in your pocket during an attempt to frighten or injure my son.”

“You don’t know the target was Leo.”

“The note in his sweater says otherwise.”

“It says he was supposed to learn fear. That could mean someone wanted to scare you through him.”

Dante stepped closer.

“Do not make the mistake of thinking those are different things.”

Elena’s pulse jumped.

“My father is dead.”

“How?”

“Car accident.”

Nico and Dante exchanged a glance.

She hated them for it.

“What?”

Nico answered.

“Marco Russo didn’t die in an ordinary accident.”

Elena laughed once, sharply.

“You knew him?”

Dante leaned against the table.

“Your father worked for mine.”

“I know.”

“You know what he did?”

“I know what newspapers said.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Elena looked at the empty dining room.

“My father was an accountant. He managed companies. He handled books.”

“For the Moretti organization,” Dante said.

“For legitimate businesses.”

“And illegitimate ones.”

She looked at him.

“You say that very easily.”

“I don’t lie about what my family was.”

“Was?”

A pause.

Nico shifted his weight.

Dante ignored the implication.

“Sixteen years ago, your father was accused of moving three million dollars out of a Moretti-controlled construction fund. Two weeks later, he died when his car left Route 17.”

“You remember the number.”

“I remember every theft from my family.”

“He didn’t steal it.”

Dante’s expression did not change.

“You sound certain.”

“I was thirteen. I heard him and my mother fighting the night before he died. He kept saying, ‘If they find out where the money really went, somebody will kill me.’”

Nico’s eyes narrowed.

“Did he say who?”

“No.”

“Did he name Dante’s father?”

“No.”

“His uncle?”

“No.”

“Anyone named Orsini?”

“No.”

Dante looked at Nico.

“Why Orsini?”

Nico’s jaw tightened.

“Because the floor-strip screws are from a discontinued Italian fitting used by two suppliers in the city. One supplied this hotel. The other supplied Felix Orsini’s clubs.”

Elena shook her head.

“That’s too convenient.”

Nico gave her a cold look.

“You’ve been part of this investigation for seven minutes.”

“And I’ve been part of my father’s death for sixteen years.”

Dante raised a hand before Nico answered.

“Continue.”

Elena stared at the blue mark.

“My father drew that symbol all the time. On grocery lists. Receipts. The corner of newspapers. My mother said it was a bad habit from work.”

“What did it mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he keep records at home?”

“He kept notebooks.”

“Where are they?”

“My mother burned them.”

Nico frowned.

“You saw her burn them?”

“I saw ashes in the fireplace.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Elena felt a prick of irritation.

“She told me she burned them.”

“When did she die?” Dante asked.

“Three years ago.”

“Did she ever tell you why you changed your last name?”

Elena’s head snapped toward him.

“I changed it.”

“At thirteen?”

“At eighteen.”

“Vale was your mother’s maiden name.”

“You looked me up fast.”

“I looked you up the minute you told me Marco’s name.”

“That’s supposed to reassure me?”

“No.”

His honesty unsettled her more than denial would have.

Dante picked up the threat.

“Someone knew who you were before tonight.”

“I’ve worked here eleven months. Half the staff know my legal name.”

“But not Russo.”

“No.”

“Then someone traced you.”

“Or someone already knew me.”

The thought made her skin tighten.

Nico’s phone vibrated.

He read the screen.

“Gray jacket is gone. We found the jacket in a service stairwell and a temporary access badge under a sink. Badge belonged to a dishwasher named Mateo Cruz. Mateo is downstairs and says he lost it yesterday.”

“Believe him?” Dante asked.

“Not yet.”

A second message arrived.

Nico’s face changed.

“What?” Dante said.

“Camera at the east loading dock looped for nine minutes.”

“Inside access.”

“Looks that way.”

Dante’s gaze moved to Elena.

“Where do you live?”

“You already heard me give Nico the address.”

“You’re not going there tonight.”

She laughed.

“I absolutely am.”

“Someone put a threat in your apron without you noticing.”

“I don’t live my life under armed guard.”

“Tonight you do.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

Dante’s eyes hardened.

“You saved my son. If someone targeted you because of that, I am responsible for keeping you alive long enough to learn why.”

“You are not responsible for me.”

“Fine. Then I’m selfish. I need answers.”

“That I believe.”

Nico rubbed a hand over his mouth.

“You two can continue this later. Right now we have a compromised building, an unidentified intruder, and a possible connection to an unsolved death from sixteen years ago.”

Dante looked at Elena.

“You can sleep upstairs in a guest room.”

“No.”

“Hotel security is mine tonight.”

“That is exactly why no.”

A knock sounded.

Mara opened the door halfway.

“Mr. Moretti?”

“What?”

“Leo won’t sleep unless Elena says goodnight.”

Dante closed his eyes briefly.

Elena almost smiled.

“Your most difficult negotiation tonight.”

“You have no idea.”

Upstairs, Leo sat in a huge bed surrounded by pillows and guarded by two men outside the door. He had changed into striped pajamas. On the nightstand sat a model airplane with one wing missing.

Elena stopped at the threshold.

Leo held out the broken wing.

“It fell.”

“You’ve had enough falling things for one night.”

He smiled faintly.

She sat beside him and fitted the plastic wing back into place.

“Were you scared?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You said you weren’t.”

“That was downstairs.”

“Were you lying?”

Elena glanced at Dante, who stood in the doorway.

“A little.”

“Papa says lying is dangerous.”

“Your papa probably knows a lot about that.”

Dante’s eyebrow rose.

Leo considered this.

“Why did you jump on me?”

“Because you were closer than I was to the glass.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Leo reached under his pillow.

He pulled out a tiny brass screw.

Dante crossed the room immediately.

“Where did you get that?”

“Floor.”

“What floor?”

“Dining room. Before dinner. I found it near the carpet.”

Elena and Dante looked at each other.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Dante asked.

“It was shiny.”

Dante held out his palm.

“May I?”

Leo handed it over reluctantly.

Nico appeared behind Dante almost at once.

“That matches the strip hardware.”

Elena leaned closer.

The screw had a faint blue stain on the head.

Ink.

The same blue as the symbol on the note.

“Bag it,” Dante said.

Nico did.

Leo yawned.

Elena stood.

“Sleep.”

“Are you staying?”

She looked at Dante.

“No.”

Dante’s jaw tightened.

Leo frowned.

“Why?”

“Because I have a home.”

“Is it safe?”

The question landed harder than it should have.

Elena forced a smile.

“It has three locks and a neighbor who watches everyone through her curtains.”

Leo seemed unconvinced.

Dante did not argue in front of him.

He waited until they were in the hall.

“Three locks won’t stop someone who got through my security.”

“You keep saying ‘my security’ as though that makes your argument better.”

“It makes it accurate.”

“I am leaving.”

He studied her.

Then he nodded once.

“Fine.”

Elena blinked.

“That easy?”

“No. Nico’s driver takes you.”

“I can get a taxi.”

“You can walk if you prefer, but a car will follow you.”

“You are impossible.”

“So I’m told.”

Forty minutes later, Elena stood outside her apartment building with a Moretti sedan idling half a block away.

She raised one finger in its direction.

The headlights flashed once.

She almost laughed despite herself.

Her third-floor apartment was dark.

Too dark.

The hallway light usually spilled beneath the door.

Tonight the gap was black.

Elena stopped six feet away.

She smelled something faint.

Paper smoke.

Her heart began to pound.

She backed toward the stairs and called Nico.

He answered on the first ring.

“What happened?”

“How did you know something happened?”

“You don’t call people you dislike for conversation.”

“My apartment.”

“What about it?”

“Someone’s been inside.”

“Do not open the door.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

The Moretti driver was already running up the stairs.

Nico arrived seven minutes later with two security men.

Dante arrived three minutes after him.

Elena stared.

“Were you driving behind us?”

Dante ignored her.

The lock showed no damage.

Inside, drawers had been opened, books pulled from shelves, couch cushions cut. The intruder had not taken her laptop, cash jar, or jewelry box.

They had been searching.

On the kitchen table sat a metal bowl.

Inside it, several sheets of paper had been burned to curled black fragments.

Elena moved toward them.

Nico caught her arm.

“Don’t touch.”

She shook him off.

“My mother kept a box in the closet.”

“What kind of box?” Dante asked.

“Letters. My father’s things.”

She ran to the bedroom.

The closet floor was empty.

Elena stood very still.

“She lied,” she whispered.

Dante came up behind her.

“Who?”

“My mother.”

“She didn’t burn everything.”

“No.”

Elena turned slowly.

“She kept something.”

“And now someone has it.”

A floorboard creaked under her heel.

Not the normal sound.

A hollow sound.

She looked down.

The board near the closet wall sat a fraction higher than the others.

Nico noticed.

“Move.”

He pried it up with a small tool.

Beneath the floorboard lay a narrow envelope wrapped in plastic.

Elena’s hands shook as she lifted it.

Her name was written across the front in her mother’s handwriting.

ELENA — IF THEY EVER COME LOOKING.

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Inside was a brass key and a single line on yellowed paper.

YOUR FATHER WAS AFRAID OF THE WRONG MORETTI.