Chapter 7 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
Clare’s blood turned to ice in her veins.
Richard.
How was he here? Dante had told her Richard was sent back to New York. Dante had told her the gates were impenetrable.
“Clare, please! Let me in!” Richard screamed from the other side of the heavy oak door, hammering his fists against the wood. “They’re going to kill me!”
Clare backed away, her hands trembling violently. She looked toward the hallway where Maya and Leo were sleeping in the nursery. She couldn't let him in. He was a monster.
“Go away!” Clare screamed back, tears of panic spilling over her cheeks. “I’m calling security!”
“I already took out the guard by the lemon grove!” Richard yelled desperately. “Clare, please! The Morettis found me! They know Dante took the flash drive! They sent hitmen to Rome. They’re inside the compound!”
A crack of thunder masked the sound of the heavy wooden door splintering.
Richard didn't wait for her to open it. He kicked the door violently, shattering the lock casing. The door swung open, hitting the stone wall with a deafening crash.
Richard stumbled into the kitchen, soaking wet from the rain, his face bruised and bleeding. He looked absolutely terrified, clutching his ribs as if they were broken.
“Where is the drive, Clare?” Richard gasped, stumbling toward her.
“I don't have it!” Clare cried, backing against the kitchen counter, grabbing the heavy iron pan she had dropped. “Stay back, Richard! I swear I’ll hit you!”
“Dante took it!” Richard shrieked, ignoring the pan. “He took the ledger! The Morettis gave me forty-eight hours to get it back or they kill me. I need that drive!”
Before Richard could take another step, a massive shadow filled the broken doorway.
Marco.
The giant bodyguard didn't say a word. He stepped into the kitchen, grabbed Richard by the back of his wet suit collar, and hurled him across the room. Richard slammed into the heavy oak dining table, breaking it in half with a sickening crunch.
Richard groaned, rolling on the floor, gasping for air.
Dante walked in slowly behind Marco. He didn't look angry. He looked disappointed.
“I told you to stay in New York, Richard,” Dante said smoothly, drawing a suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster.
“Don't!” Richard wept, holding up his bleeding hands. “Dante, please! The Morettis... they sent an assassin. He’s already inside the house! He’s looking for you!”
Dante didn't flinch. He raised his weapon, aiming it directly at Richard’s head.
“I know,” Dante said coldly. “Marco, secure Clare and the children.”
“Wait!” Clare yelled, stepping forward.
She wasn't looking at Dante. She was looking at the floor near the broken dining table.
When Marco had thrown Richard, something had fallen out of Richard’s inner jacket pocket.
It was a small, glossy photograph.
Clare stared at it, her breath catching in her throat.
“Clare, step back,” Dante ordered, his eyes never leaving Richard.
“Dante, look,” Clare whispered, pointing a trembling finger at the photograph on the floor.
Dante glanced down for a fraction of a second. But that fraction of a second was enough to freeze the mafia boss in place.
Dante slowly lowered his gun. He walked over to the broken table and picked up the photograph.
It was a surveillance picture, taken outside a café in Chicago six months ago.
It showed a beautiful, dark-haired woman sitting at a patio table, laughing.
It was Alessia. Dante’s dead wife. Leo’s mother.
But she wasn't alone.
Sitting across the table from her, smiling and holding a small envelope, was Richard Peterson.
A reversal hit the room with the force of an earthquake.
Richard hadn't just stumbled into the Salvatore compound to get the flash drive back. He had a connection to the woman whose death had shattered Dante’s world.
“Where did you get this?” Dante whispered, his voice vibrating with a lethal, barely contained fury.
Richard coughed blood, a sickening, desperate smile spreading across his bruised face.
“I told you I manage the Morettis' money, Dante,” Richard wheezed. “Who do you think paid for the car bomb that killed your wife?”
Dante’s face drained of all color.
May you like
“You didn't just launder money,” Dante realized, the horrifying truth dawning on him. “You funded the hit.”
“And I can tell you exactly who pulled the trigger,” Richard choked out, holding up a shaking, bloody hand. “If you give me the flash drive and let me walk out of here alive.”
