Chapter 1 - The Man in My Husband’s Chair
Josephine slammed her palm against the marble table and whispered, “Get out of his chair.”
Chicago mafia boss Dante Moretti placed a small brass key beside Joseph’s untouched scotch.
Three numbers had been scratched into the metal.
Josephine suddenly understood that the stranger had not come to disrespect a dead man.
He had come because Joseph might still be alive.
For several seconds, no one in the dining room moved.
The enormous crystal chandelier above them cast warm light across polished marble, gold-rimmed plates, black napkins, and dozens of faces that had gone frighteningly still.
Josephine Miller remained bent over the table, one hand pressed hard against the stone.
Her breathing was shallow.
Across from her sat the man half of Chicago had learned never to mention above a whisper.
Dante Moretti.
He looked nothing like the tabloid photographs Josephine remembered.
Those photographs had always captured him stepping out of black cars, surrounded by attorneys, bodyguards, and reporters. They made him seem cold and distant.
In person, he was worse.
Not because he looked cruel.
Because he looked comfortable.
Silver-gray hair swept away from a strong face. A neatly trimmed beard. A white dress shirt open at the collar. Black-and-gray tattoos disappeared beneath his sleeves and rose slightly above his collar.
He sat in Joseph’s ornate chair as if he had occupied it for years.
Josephine stared at the brass key.
“What is 814?”
Dante lifted the crystal glass.
“Not here.”
“You walked into my husband’s memorial.”
“Yes.”
“You sat in his chair.”
“Yes.”
“You drank his scotch.”
Dante glanced at the amber liquid.
“He always bought terrible scotch.”
Josephine’s face changed.
Only slightly.
But Dante noticed.
“My husband hated scotch.”
“No,” Dante said softly. “Joseph hated being watched while drinking what he actually liked.”
A chill moved down her back.
Behind Josephine, one of the memorial guests cleared his throat.
Her uncle Robert.
“Josephine,” he said carefully, “perhaps this gentleman should leave.”
Dante did not look at him.
“That would be a mistake.”
Robert stepped forward.
He was fifty-eight, broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, dressed in a black tuxedo that had probably cost more than most people’s rent.
Since Joseph’s death three weeks earlier, Robert had handled everything.
The police.
The funeral arrangements.
The insurance paperwork.
The memorial.
He had been there whenever Josephine woke from nightmares.
She trusted him more than anyone left in her family.
Which was why the look on his face bothered her.
Robert was afraid of Dante.
“Who invited you?” Robert demanded.
Dante smiled faintly.
“Joseph.”
A glass slipped from someone’s hand.
It shattered against the floor.
Josephine slowly turned.
An older woman named Evelyn Pierce stood near the far side of the table, one hand over her mouth.
She had worked for Joseph’s financial company for almost a decade.
Her face had drained of color.
Josephine looked back at Dante.
“My husband died twenty-three days ago.”
“So I heard.”
“I saw the casket.”
“I attended the burial.”
“I signed his death certificate.”
“You signed acknowledgment of it.”
Her throat tightened.
Dante reached beneath Joseph’s plate.
He removed a folded photograph.
Josephine’s stomach dropped.
“Where did you get that?”
“Your husband gave it to me.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Most useful truths begin that way.”
He slid it across the marble.
Josephine resisted touching it.
Then she saw the corner.
A date had been printed there.
Her fingers moved before she could stop them.
She opened the photograph.
Joseph stood outside a redbrick building.
Alive.
Wearing jeans.
A gray coat.
A baseball cap pulled low.
The picture appeared grainy, as though taken from a surveillance camera.
Josephine’s heart hammered.
She searched the date again.
Four days ago.
Nineteen days after Joseph Miller had supposedly been buried.
“This is fake.”
Dante remained silent.
“It has to be.”
“Look at his left hand.”
Josephine did.
Joseph wore his wedding ring.
Her wedding ring.
The one police said had been lost in the explosion that killed him.
She stared at it.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
Her voice broke.
Josephine stood so quickly her chair scraped loudly across the floor.
Guests shifted uneasily.
Two security men near the wall placed their hands in front of them but did not move.
Josephine pointed at Dante.
“You don’t get to walk in here and do this.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know anything about what I went through.”
“I know more than you think.”
“I spent three weeks waking up believing the last thing I ever said to my husband was that I was angry he missed dinner.”
Dante’s expression changed.
Only for a moment.
Josephine saw something close to sympathy.
That somehow made her angrier.
“I buried an empty coffin?”
Dante did not answer.
She looked around the room.
“Did anyone here know?”
Nobody spoke.
Josephine’s eyes moved from face to face.
Robert.
Evelyn.
Joseph’s attorney, Martin Cole.
Two of Joseph’s business partners.
Her cousin Amelia.
Every person avoided her gaze.
Josephine suddenly felt as though the floor had disappeared.
“You knew.”
Robert stepped toward her.
“No.”
“Somebody knew.”
Dante put down his glass.
“That is why I came.”
Josephine looked at him.
“You expect me to trust you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then why should I follow anything you say?”
“You shouldn’t.”
Dante picked up the brass key.
He turned it between two fingers.
“You should trust your husband.”
“My husband lied about being dead.”
“He may have lied so you could remain alive.”
Silence.
Josephine stared.
Dante placed the key back down.
“Hotel Lexington. Room 814.”
Robert suddenly said, “Josephine, don’t.”
That was enough.
She turned sharply.
“Why?”
Robert stopped.
A fraction too late.
Dante leaned back.
Interesting.
Josephine looked between them.
“Why shouldn’t I go?”
Robert’s jaw tightened.
“Because this man is a criminal.”
“That's not an answer.”
“He could be manipulating you.”
“Neither is that.”
Robert moved closer.
“You are grieving.”
“I was grieving.”
Her voice became colder.
“Now I’m furious.”
She snatched the key.
Robert grabbed her wrist.
The entire room froze.
Dante stood.
He did not raise his voice.
“Let her go.”
Robert released Josephine immediately.
Josephine looked down at her wrist, then at the uncle who had raised her after her father’s death.
Something inside her shifted.
She had known Robert all her life.
But she had never seen him frightened like this.
Not until Dante Moretti appeared.
Dante buttoned one cuff.
“If you go to Room 814, do not tell anyone where you’re going.”
Josephine laughed bitterly.
“You just announced it to thirty people.”
“Only three matter.”
He glanced across the room.
Robert.
Evelyn.
Martin Cole.
Their expressions changed.
Dante turned toward the door.
Josephine called after him.
“Why are you helping Joseph?”
Dante stopped.
He did not turn.
“Because once, when everyone in Chicago wanted me dead, your husband was the only man who refused to pull the trigger.”
Then he walked away.
The security men followed.
No one spoke until the ballroom doors closed behind them.
Josephine looked at the key in her palm.
Her husband was alive.
Maybe.
Or Dante Moretti wanted her to believe he was.
Either possibility terrified her.
Robert approached carefully.
“Give me the key.”
Josephine closed her fist.
“No.”
“Josephine.”
“No.”
“He’s dangerous.”
“So was whoever convinced me to bury my husband.”
Robert’s face tightened.
“I protected you.”
“From what?”
He said nothing.
Josephine looked at Evelyn.
“You worked with Joseph every day. Tell me.”
Evelyn’s eyes filled with tears.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“Please.”
“Did you know he was alive?”
Evelyn shook her head quickly.
But Josephine noticed her hand.
It was trembling.
Martin Cole suddenly stood.
“I think everyone should leave.”
Josephine laughed once.
“That is the first sensible thing anyone has said tonight.”
Within minutes, guests began disappearing.
No condolences.
No handshakes.
They moved quickly, almost eagerly.
As though the memorial had become a crime scene.
Twenty minutes later Josephine stood alone near the chair.
Joseph’s chair.
The glass Dante had used remained there.
She touched the carved gold edge.
For three weeks, this chair had symbolized absence.
Now it felt like an accusation.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
She opened the message.
DO NOT GO TO ROOM 814.
Josephine stared at the words.
Another message arrived.
MORETTI DOESN’T KNOW EVERYTHING.
Then a photograph appeared.
Josephine’s breath stopped.
It showed her standing inside the ballroom.
Right now.
Taken from somewhere behind her.
She spun around.
Empty room.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
She walked toward the doorway.
Her phone vibrated again.
Josephine looked down.
A video file.
She pressed play.
The screen showed Joseph.
Alive.
He was sitting in darkness.
Bruised.
Exhausted.
He looked directly into the camera.
“Josie,” he whispered.
Josephine almost dropped the phone.
Joseph swallowed.
“If Dante found you, I’m already out of time.”
Static flashed across the screen.
Joseph looked toward someone outside the frame.
Then back at the camera.
“Whatever happens, do not trust—”
The recording stopped.
Josephine hit play again.
Same ending.
Do not trust—
Who?
Her phone suddenly rang.
Joseph’s name appeared on the screen.
Not UNKNOWN.
Not a hidden number.
JOSEPH MILLER.
Josephine stopped breathing.
She answered.
“Joseph?”
Silence.
Then she heard her husband whisper.
“Josie, don’t turn around.”
May you like
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Someone was standing inside the ballroom.
