Chapter 2 - The Rattle at the Penthouse Door
“Who is Victor Hale?”
The question left my mouth before Dante could hide the card.
His expression told me I had already stepped into something he had spent years keeping away from me.
Marco stood near the windows.
He didn't move.
Dante placed the silver rattle back into the box.
“Norah.”
“No.”
My voice was steadier than I felt.
“You don't get to use that tone.”
“What tone?”
“The one that means you're about to tell me something is complicated so I shouldn't ask.”
His jaw tightened.
I had loved Dante long enough to recognize silence as one of his defenses.
He used it when angry.
When worried.
When deciding how much truth another person could handle.
Usually I let him.
Not that night.
Someone knew I was pregnant.
Someone had learned before my husband.
Someone had sent a message to the building where I slept.
“Who is Victor Hale?”
Dante leaned back.
“He worked for my father.”
“Doing what?”
“Problems.”
That answer was almost insulting.
“What kind of problems?”
Marco looked at Dante.
Dante gave a tiny shake of his head.
I noticed.
“Don't do that.”
Marco's eyes shifted toward me.
“Mrs. Costello—”
“Norah.”
He nodded.
“Norah.”
“Tell me.”
Marco waited.
Dante finally spoke.
“Victor handled internal security for my father twenty years ago.”
“Security.”
“Yes.”
“You mean enforcement.”
Dante didn't deny it.
I looked at the card again.
Victor Hale.
The handwriting was clean.
Almost elegant.
“Where is he now?”
“Dead.”
I stared at Dante.
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
My skin went cold.
Marco stepped closer.
“His car went through a guardrail outside Milwaukee.”
“You're sure he died?”
“We identified the body,” Dante said.
“Then someone is using his name.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That,” Dante said, “is what we're going to find out.”
I looked toward the box.
“Was Adrian connected to him?”
“I don't know.”
“You've investigated Adrian before.”
Dante's silence answered.
A pulse of anger moved through me.
“When?”
“After we got engaged.”
“You told me you wouldn't.”
“I told you I wouldn't interfere in your past.”
“That sounds exactly like interference.”
“I wanted to know whether he was dangerous.”
“And?”
Dante looked at the bruising on my throat.
“I underestimated him.”
That frightened me more than if he had said yes.
Dante did not underestimate people often.
“What did you find?”
“Adrian Mercer. Thirty-eight. Finance consultant. Private investment firm called Mercer Strategic Holdings. No criminal convictions. Two sealed civil complaints. One former employee filed for a restraining order, then withdrew it.”
“Woman?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
“Caroline Voss.”
I had never heard it.
Dante continued.
“Adrian also had debt.”
“How much?”
“Enough that his public lifestyle made no sense.”
“What kind of debt?”
“Private.”
I almost laughed.
“That's another non-answer.”
“Norah, some lenders aren't banks.”
I understood.
“Your family?”
“No.”
He said it quickly.
Too quickly?
I studied him.
Dante reached for my hand.
I pulled back.
Pain crossed his face.
Good.
He needed to understand.
“I found out I'm pregnant today,” I said. “Before I could tell you, a man who used to control me followed me into a café and put his hand around my throat. Six hours later, somebody sent our unborn child a threat using information from my doctor's office.”
“I know.”
“No. You know the events. I need you to understand what I'm asking.”
He waited.
“I don't want protection built out of secrets.”
Something softened in his face.
I continued.
“If there is something in your life that can reach our child, I need to know.”
For a long moment, Dante said nothing.
Then he nodded.
“All right.”
Marco quietly left the room.
Dante walked to the bar but poured water instead of whiskey.
He handed me a glass.
Then he sat opposite me.
“My grandfather, Salvatore Costello, built the first Costello businesses in the seventies.”
“I know.”
“Trucking. Warehouses. Bars. Construction.”
“I know that too.”
“He also built something else.”
I waited.
“A network.”
There it was.
The word that existed behind every whispered rumor.
“What kind of network?”
“Men who collected debts. Fixed contracts. Bought officials. Frightened competitors.”
“And worse?”
Dante met my eyes.
“Yes.”
I appreciated the honesty even though it made me cold.
“My father inherited it,” he continued. “He expanded the legitimate companies, but he kept too much of the old structure.”
“And you?”
“When Dad died, I dismantled most of it.”
“Most.”
“There were people who didn't want it dismantled.”
“Victor Hale?”
“Victor believed the old system was the reason our family survived.”
“So he opposed you.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He stole from me.”
“How much?”
“Eight million.”
I almost choked on my water.
“And then he died?”
“Not because of me.”
“You understand why I have to ask.”
“Yes.”
Dante leaned forward.
“I confronted him. He denied it. Three days later his car went off the road. Police ruled it an accident.”
“Did you believe them?”
“At the time.”
“And now?”
He looked at the baby rattle.
“No.”
A horrible possibility formed.
“What if he didn't die?”
“The body was his.”
“Then someone wants you thinking about him.”
“Yes.”
“Why now?”
Dante's eyes moved to my stomach.
That was the question.
We spent most of the night awake.
Security doubled downstairs.
Marco took the package to be examined.
The rattle had been purchased with cash from a boutique in River North.
The ribbon was ordinary.
The box had no usable fingerprints.
The courier had been hired through a delivery app under a fake account.
At 1:12 a.m., Dante received a call.
He walked into his office.
I followed.
He looked at me.
“No more secrets,” I said.
He put the phone on speaker.
Marco's voice came through.
“We pulled the building footage.”
“And?”
“The courier was legitimate. Young guy, twenty-two, didn't know what he was carrying.”
“Who gave him the package?”
“A woman.”
My stomach tightened.
“Description?”
“Late fifties. Dark coat. Gray scarf. Sunglasses.”
“Camera?”
“Got her face for about two seconds.”
“Run it.”
“Already did.”
Silence.
Dante's posture changed.
“Marco.”
“You need to see this yourself.”
Twenty minutes later, Marco returned with a tablet.
He placed it on Dante's desk.
A grainy still image filled the screen.
The woman was stepping away from the courier.
Her sunglasses were partly lowered.
Dark hair streaked with silver.
Thin face.
Sharp cheekbones.
I didn't recognize her.
Dante did.
His hand froze against the desk.
“Who is she?” I asked.
He didn't answer.
Marco looked sick.
That frightened me.
“Dante.”
“My mother.”
The room tilted.
I had seen photographs of Isabella Costello.
Beautiful.
Elegant.
Always wearing pearls.
She had died when Dante was nineteen.
Or that was what I had been told.
“Your mother is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Then that's not her.”
Dante stared at the screen.
Marco enlarged the image.
“There are facial recognition similarities,” he said carefully. “Eighty-seven percent.”
“That's impossible.”
Dante sounded younger when he said it.
For a moment, he wasn't the man people feared.
He was a son looking at a ghost.
I moved closer.
“What happened to her?”
“House fire.”
“Did you see her body?”
Dante didn't answer.
I understood.
“No.”
“My father identified her.”
Marco's phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“We got something from the clinic.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Someone accessed Norah's patient file at 8:41 this morning.”
My pulse jumped.
“That was before I told anyone.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Marco looked at Dante.
The answer was apparently bad enough to require permission.
“Say it,” Dante ordered.
“The account belonged to Dr. Elaine Porter.”
My doctor.
“No,” I said. “She wouldn't.”
“She says she didn't.”
“Then someone used her login.”
“That's what the clinic is investigating.”
Dante picked up his coat.
“Where are you going?”
“To speak to her.”
“I'm coming.”
“No.”
I stared at him.
He corrected himself.
“I would prefer you didn't.”
“Better.”
Despite everything, he almost smiled.
“I am still coming.”
At 2:08 a.m., we arrived at Dr. Porter's townhouse.
Police were already there.
My doctor stood inside the doorway wearing pajamas and a coat.
She looked terrified.
“Norah.”
“What happened?”
“I got a message.”
She held up her phone.
An officer tried to stop her.
Dante stepped forward.
“What did it say?”
Dr. Porter unlocked the screen.
A photograph appeared.
It showed me leaving the clinic that morning.
Timestamped 9:16 a.m.
Taken from across the street.
Below it was a message.
SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT SHE MARRIED.
My blood went cold.
Then Dr. Porter swiped to the second photograph.
This one showed Dante.
Twenty years younger.
Standing beside a woman.
Isabella Costello.
His mother.
On the back wall behind them was a symbol.
A black circle cut by a silver line.
Dante grabbed the phone.
“What is that?” I asked.
He didn't answer.
He zoomed in.
His face drained of color.
“Dante.”
“I've seen this.”
“Where?”
“In my father's private ledger.”
My heart started pounding.
“The ledger you told me was destroyed?”
“Yes.”
Another message arrived.
Dr. Porter's phone buzzed in Dante's hand.
No one spoke.
He opened it.
Three words appeared.
ASK ADRIAN MERCER.
Then a second line appeared beneath it.
ABOUT HIS MOTHER.
Dante looked at me.
I looked back.
May you like
Because until that moment, I had never known Adrian's mother had anything to do with the Costellos.
And somewhere across the city, Adrian was waiting for us to discover why.
