Chapter 2 - A Kiss in Front of the Killers
The black sedan waited in an alley behind the restaurant with its engine running and both rear doors open. Rain struck the pavement hard enough to make the street shine like polished stone.
Two of Dante’s men moved ahead of us. Another walked behind, his hand hidden beneath his coat.
I was not handcuffed.
That frightened me more than if I had been.
Dante guided me into the car with one hand at the center of my back. His touch was neither rough nor gentle. It carried the calm certainty of a locked door.
He entered after me and shut us inside.
The glass was tinted. The leather smelled new. A dark partition separated us from the driver, though I doubted it blocked sound unless Dante wanted it to.
He sat across from me rather than beside me.
For several blocks, he said nothing.
Rain tracked down the window behind him, bending the city lights across his face. There was blood on the cuff of his white shirt, but none appeared to be his.
I had watched Dante for nearly a year. I had seen him leave hospitals, charity dinners, construction sites, family restaurants, and private clubs. I had documented his habits with the emotional distance of someone listing train schedules.
None of those pages had prepared me for being alone with him.
“You threw a bottle,” he said.
“It was close.”
“You could have run.”
“The rear door was blocked.”
“You noticed that?”
“I notice exits.”
His gaze traveled over me slowly.
“Private investigator.”
“Yes.”
“Licensed?”
“Yes.”
“Honest?”
“Sometimes.”
The corner of his mouth moved, though I would not call it a smile.
“Who hired you?”
I watched the city slide past his shoulder.
“Harlan Pierce.”
The change in his expression was almost invisible. A slight stillness around the eyes. Nothing more.
“You know him?”
“I know the name.”
“He said he represented investors who believed you were hiding assets through your construction company.”
“And you believed him?”
“Not entirely.”
“But you accepted the job.”
“I accept many jobs.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only honest one.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“How long?”
I knew what he meant.
“Eleven months.”
For the first time since the restaurant, Dante looked genuinely affected.
“You followed me for eleven months.”
“I investigated you.”
“You photographed my home.”
“Yes.”
“My restaurants.”
“Yes.”
“My meetings.”
“Yes.”
“My family?”
I hesitated.
His voice lost its softness.
“My family, Marceline?”
Hearing my name from him jolted me.
I had never given it.
“You know who I am.”
“I knew who you were before you crossed the dining room.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“Your office is above the café where Pierce met you this morning.”
The defective window. The filing cabinet. My copies.
The city seemed to tilt beneath the moving car.
“You had me followed.”
“I had Pierce followed.”
“For how long?”
“Six months.”
A laugh escaped me, quiet and humorless.
Eleven months studying Dante while he spent six months watching the man who employed me. We had been circling each other through Boston without meeting, each gathering pieces of the other’s life.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” I asked.
“I wanted to know what he wanted.”
“He wanted your routine.”
“And you gave it to him.”
The accusation entered cleanly.
I looked down at my hands.
“Yes.”
Dante leaned back.
“Why warn me tonight?”
I could have lied. I could have said guilt. Professional ethics. Fear of being connected to murder.
All would have been partially true.
But Dante had spent his life listening for the missing half of every sentence.
“Because of Sofia.”
The car became silent.
Even the city beyond the windows seemed to disappear.
Dante’s face did not change, but something lethal settled into the space between us.
“What did you say?”
“Sofia.”
His right hand moved beneath his jacket.
I raised both hands.
“I’m not threatening her.”
“How do you know that name?”
“Because I followed you.”
“No one follows me to Sofia.”
“I did.”
The car stopped suddenly at a red light. Dante barely moved.
I continued before he could decide what to do with me.
“Eleven months ago, I saw you leave your Back Bay house at two in the morning. You changed cars twice and walked six blocks through Charlestown. You entered a small apartment building through the basement. I thought you were meeting a source or hiding money.”
His eyes held mine.
“I waited across the street until sunrise. You came out carrying a child’s backpack.”
“Stop.”
“I followed the building manager three days later. I learned there was a nine-year-old girl living upstairs under the name Sofia Moretti. Her mother died five years ago. Her father’s identity was not listed.”
“Stop talking.”
“I never put her in Pierce’s reports.”
His hand remained beneath his jacket.
“I deleted every photograph. I changed the time stamp on your movements and wrote that you stayed home.”
“Why?”
“Because she was a child.”
“That has never stopped people.”
“It stopped me.”
The light changed. The car moved again.
Dante turned toward the window. His reflection stared back at him.
Sofia was his daughter. Hidden not because he was ashamed of her, but because he understood what his enemies would do if they knew she existed. He visited her twice a week under darkness, never using the same route. She believed he traveled for work. The elderly woman raising her was her mother’s aunt.
I had discovered the secret through patience and luck.
Pierce never knew.
“If I had left tonight,” I said, “those men would have killed you. Eventually, whoever ordered it would have found Sofia. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not for years. But she would have been alone.”
Dante faced me again.
“You built a file on me. You accepted money from an enemy. Yet you protected my daughter.”
“Yes.”
“And now you expect me to trust you.”
“No.”
The answer surprised him.
“I expect you to investigate me,” I continued. “You’ll search my office, my apartment, my bank accounts and every case I’ve worked. You’ll read my reports. You’ll learn that I made copies of everything I gave Pierce. Then you’ll decide whether to kill me.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You speak as though that possibility doesn’t frighten you.”
“It frightens me enough to be accurate.”
The sedan turned into an underground garage beneath a brownstone in Back Bay. A steel door lowered behind us.
Dante exited first.
I followed because three armed men were waiting and because refusing would only create theater.
The building above the garage did not resemble a criminal fortress. It was quiet, elegant, and carefully restored, with dark wood, pale walls, and artwork chosen by someone who understood the difference between expense and taste.
A woman in her sixties stood in the foyer wearing a gray dress and no visible fear.
“Mr. Sabatini,” she said. “We heard about the restaurant.”
“Is Sofia here?”
“No. She’s with Mrs. Moretti.”
“Double her security. No one tells her why.”
The woman looked at me.
“And our guest?”
“Her name is Marceline Cole.”
Guest.
That was one word for it.
Dante took me into a study lined with books. He closed the door, poured whiskey into two glasses, and handed one to me.
I did not drink it.
He sat behind the desk.
“Tell me everything Pierce requested.”
“Your schedule. Your businesses. The names of people you met. Routes, restaurants, vehicle changes.”
“Financial records?”
“I couldn’t access them.”
“Phones?”
“No.”
“Security?”
“He asked twice. I refused.”
“Why?”
“I investigate people. I don’t plan assassinations.”
“And yet your information planned one.”
The truth of it struck harder because he spoke without anger.
“I know.”
He studied me.
“Where are the copies?”
“In my office.”
“Anyone else know?”
“No.”
“Does Pierce know you warned me?”
“Not yet.”
“He will soon.”
My phone vibrated inside my coat.
Dante held out his hand.
I removed it and looked at the screen.
Unknown number.
A message waited.
You should have stayed in the garage.
Below it was a photograph.
My office window, taken from the building across the street.
The light was on.
Someone stood inside beside the gray filing cabinet.
Dante read the message over my shoulder.
“Your copies are gone,” he said.
“They may still be there.”
“No.”
The phone vibrated again.
This time the image showed a young woman leaving a nursing facility in Cambridge. Red coat. Dark hair tied back.
My sister, Lena.
Under the photograph were seven words.
Come alone, or she pays for him.
I stopped breathing.
Dante took the phone from my hand.
“Who is she?”
“My sister.”
“What does Pierce know about her?”
“He shouldn’t know anything.”
“But he does.”
I reached for the phone. Dante closed his fingers around it.
“I have to go.”
“No.”
“He’ll hurt her.”
“Yes.”
“Then give me my phone.”
“No.”
Anger finally broke through the fear.
“This is my family.”
“And Pierce attempted to murder me using information you supplied. It is now my problem.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I decide everything connected to the men who fired inside that restaurant.”
I stepped closer to his desk.
“If he thinks I involved you, he’ll move her.”
“If you go alone, he’ll kill both of you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
The certainty in his voice stopped me.
Dante stood.
Up close, his size was not the most intimidating thing about him. It was the restraint—the sense that every movement had been considered before it happened.
“I will bring your sister somewhere safe,” he said. “You will remain here until I know who Pierce works for.”
“I’m not staying locked in your house.”
“You prefer his basement?”
“I prefer making my own decisions.”
“That preference nearly got you shot.”
“My decision saved your life.”
His eyes darkened.
“Yes,” he said. “And that is the only reason you are standing here arguing with me.”
A knock sounded.
One of his men entered carrying a tablet.
“Boss, the restaurant’s cameras caught the shooters arriving. Two are connected to Viktor Hale.”
Dante’s jaw hardened.
I knew the name.
Viktor Hale ran a collection of shipping companies, private clubs, and warehouses along the harbor. Pierce had once asked whether Dante met with him.
I had said no.
The man continued. “There’s more. Pierce left his apartment forty minutes ago. Our people lost him near South Station.”
“Find Marceline’s sister.”
“Already moving.”
Dante looked at me.
“You will give him what he expects.”
“What?”
“A frightened woman willing to trade information for her sister.”
“I am a frightened woman.”
“No.” His gaze dropped briefly to my lips, then returned to my eyes. “You walked across a room toward three killers and kissed a stranger to save his life.”
My pulse stumbled.
“You are many things, Marceline Cole. Frightened is only one of them.”
My phone vibrated again in his hand.
A new message appeared.
Midnight. Track nine. Come alone. Bring every copy.
Dante read it and handed the phone back.
“We have two hours,” he said.
“For what?”
“To make Pierce believe you are alone.”
“And when he does?”
May you like
Dante reached for the pistol lying beneath his jacket.
“Then he will tell us who ordered my death.”
