Chapter 3 - The Man Who Paid for the Bullet
Blood spread beneath Salvatore's shoulder.
Marco dropped beside him.
“Alive.”
Dante looked toward the corridor.
“Get the shooter.”
Two guards ran.
Clara knelt near Salvatore.
His eyes fluttered.
“Don't move,” she said.
Salvatore looked at Dante.
“I didn't...”
His breathing became shallow.
Dante rolled closer.
“You didn't what?”
“Pay...”
“For the shooting?”
Salvatore struggled.
“Name... stolen.”
Then he lost consciousness.
Paramedics stationed for the wedding rushed upstairs.
Dante watched them work.
The man who raised him might have been involved in destroying his legs.
Or someone had framed him.
And now that same someone had tried to kill him before he could explain.
Dante looked at Marco.
“Lock the entire property.”
“It already is.”
“Then the shooter is still inside.”
Clara stood.
“You have five hundred guests.”
“And one murderer.”
“Maybe more than one.”
Dante looked at her.
She was learning quickly.
Or perhaps she already knew more than she had admitted.
“Why did Vanessa choose you?”
Clara blinked.
“What?”
“To deliver messages. Hide evidence. Stay beside me.”
“I worked for her family years ago.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Clara hesitated.
“Because I helped her once.”
“How?”
“Her father had a gambling problem. Men came looking for him. Vanessa was seventeen. I hid her in my apartment for three nights.”
Dante had never heard this.
“She trusted you.”
“Yes.”
“Enough to bring you into my wedding.”
“Yes.”
“Enough to risk your life.”
Clara's eyes met his.
“She thought you were worth saving.”
The words struck harder than Dante expected.
He looked away.
“Marco.”
“Yes?”
“Find the bullet.”
They searched the corridor.
A round had lodged in the wooden frame.
Marco studied the angle.
“Shooter fired from the western service hall.”
Clara frowned.
“Staff passage.”
“You know it?”
“I've been working here since yesterday.”
She pointed.
“It leads to the kitchen, laundry room, loading entrance, and the old wine cellar.”
Dante's eyes narrowed.
“Show us.”
They took the service elevator.
Several security men followed.
The contrast was immediate.
Above them: marble, chandeliers, roses.
Below: gray stone walls, exposed pipes, fluorescent lights.
Clara led them through narrow corridors.
Dante's wheelchair barely fit through one doorway.
“Luxury castles weren't designed for me,” he muttered.
Clara looked back.
“Then the castle needs fixing.”
He almost smiled again.
They reached the wine cellar.
The door was open.
Marco entered first.
Empty.
Then Clara noticed mud.
Footprints.
Fresh.
They led behind a rack of vintage bottles.
Marco pushed the rack.
It moved.
A hidden passage appeared.
Dante stared.
“This property belonged to smugglers during Prohibition,” Marco said. “There are tunnels.”
“Why wasn't I told?”
“You bought the place six months ago.”
“Remind me to fire the inspector.”
Clara crouched near the footprints.
“There are two sets.”
Marco looked.
“One large. One smaller.”
Dante's stomach tightened.
“Vanessa.”
They followed.
The tunnel descended beneath the estate.
The air grew cold.
After fifty yards, they found a torn piece of white satin caught on a nail.
Vanessa's wedding dress.
Dante touched it.
She had been here.
Alive.
Possibly dragged.
Farther ahead lay a broken pearl bracelet.
Then blood.
Not much.
But enough.
Dante looked at Marco.
“Move.”
They reached an underground chamber.
A chair sat in the center.
Rope on the floor.
An empty syringe.
And a burner phone.
Marco checked it.
“One recent call.”
“To whom?”
Marco looked at Dante.
“Julian.”
Dante stared.
“Call it.”
Marco hit redial.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then someone answered.
No one spoke.
Dante leaned closer.
“Julian?”
A man's voice replied.
“You're getting close.”
Not Julian.
Dante's expression hardened.
“Who is this?”
“You should have stayed upstairs and enjoyed your humiliation.”
“Where is Vanessa?”
A laugh.
“Still asking about the bride.”
Dante's heart sank.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you still think tonight is about her.”
The call ended.
Marco cursed.
Clara stared at the burner phone.
“Can you trace it?”
“Not quickly.”
Dante wheeled around.
“Search the chamber.”
They found a small metal box.
Locked.
Dante tried the brass key marked 11-17.
It fit.
Inside were documents.
Bank transfers.
Photographs.
Medical invoices.
And a yellowed newspaper clipping from twenty years earlier.
MORETTI COUPLE KILLED IN CAR EXPLOSION.
Dante stared at the photograph of his parents.
His father, Antonio.
His mother, Elena.
He had been seventeen when their car exploded.
Salvatore told him it had been a rival family.
Three men were killed in retaliation.
Dante picked up another document.
A death certificate.
ANTONIO MORETTI.
Then another sheet.
A passport photograph.
Same face.
Different name.
ANTONIO MARINI.
Issued eighteen months after Antonio Moretti's supposed death.
Dante's hands went numb.
Clara whispered:
“Your father survived.”
Marco looked equally stunned.
Dante read the attached note.
ANTONIO M. — SUBJECT ACTIVE. CURRENT STATUS: UNKNOWN.
“Salvatore said my father was connected to my shooting.”
Clara stared.
“If he survived the explosion...”
“He could have arranged it.”
Marco shook his head.
“Why would a father shoot his own son?”
Dante's voice was flat.
“In my family, that is not the strangest question anyone has asked.”
They found more photographs.
Antonio meeting unknown men.
Antonio outside a hospital.
Antonio near Dante's apartment six months before the shooting.
Then Clara picked up one image.
Her face drained.
“What?”
She handed it to Dante.
It showed Vanessa leaving a Manhattan restaurant.
Across the street stood Antonio.
Watching her.
The photograph was dated eight weeks earlier.
Dante felt rage rise through him.
“My father was following her.”
“Or protecting her,” Clara said.
Dante looked at her sharply.
“Why defend him?”
“I didn't.”
“You said—”
“I said we don't know.”
Dante hated uncertainty.
Uncertainty made men vulnerable.
But Clara was right.
A sound echoed in the tunnel.
Footsteps.
Marco drew his weapon.
The guards spread out.
“Who's there?”
No answer.
A shadow moved.
Marco fired into the ceiling.
“Stop!”
A man emerged slowly.
Hands raised.
Julian.
His tuxedo was torn.
Blood stained one sleeve.
Dante's eyes turned lethal.
“Where is Vanessa?”
Julian looked exhausted.
“I lost her.”
“You had one job.”
“I was ambushed.”
“By whom?”
“I don't know.”
Dante wheeled toward him.
“If she dies—”
“She won't.”
“How do you know?”
Julian looked at Clara.
Then back at Dante.
“Because they don't want Vanessa.”
Dante's face hardened.
“Then what do they want?”
“You.”
Silence.
Julian took a breath.
“I know why your father disappeared.”
Dante waited.
Julian continued.
“He wasn't running from enemies.”
“Then?”
“He was building something.”
“What?”
“A network inside every major family on the East Coast.”
Marco frowned.
“For what?”
“To end the old leadership.”
Dante stared.
Julian's voice dropped.
“And Dante, you were supposed to inherit it.”
Dante laughed coldly.
“I inherited bullets.”
“Because you refused without knowing you refused.”
Julian reached inside his jacket slowly.
Marco aimed.
“Easy.”
Julian removed a folded letter.
He handed it to Dante.
Dante recognized the handwriting instantly.
His father's.
SON, IF SALVATORE TELLS YOU I AM DEAD, LET HIM. WHEN THE TIME COMES, YOU WILL HAVE TO CHOOSE BETWEEN THE FAMILY YOU INHERITED AND THE FAMILY YOU CAN BUILD.
Dante read it twice.
Then a sound came from behind the stone wall.
A woman crying.
“Dante!”
Vanessa.
He turned.
Julian went pale.
“That isn't possible.”
Dante looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because I saw them put her in a car twenty minutes ago.”
Another cry came.
Closer.
“Dante, help me!”
Marco found a hidden door.
Dante rolled toward it.
Clara grabbed his arm.
“Wait.”
He looked at her.
“That voice could be another recording.”
Dante stared at the door.
Then three knocks came from the other side.
A pause.
Two knocks.
Another pause.
Three knocks.
Dante's blood chilled.
It was a signal Vanessa used when entering his office.
Only she knew it.
Marco reached for the handle.
The lock clicked by itself.
The door slowly opened.
May you like
And someone inside whispered Dante's childhood nickname.
A name no living person was supposed to know.
