Chapter 4 - THE BLUE COAT
The clock in the kitchen read 11:15 PM.
The guests were gone. The townhouse was on total lockdown.
Dante had stationed his own private security team—men loyal only to him, not the Marchettis—at every door and window.
I sat Lily at the kitchen island, wrapping her in a warm blanket and pouring her a glass of warm milk. Mrs. Walsh, the house manager, sat with her, brushing Lily’s hair with a gentle hand.
“She’s safe now, Emma,” Mrs. Walsh promised softly.
I nodded, my chest still heaving with leftover panic.
I walked out into the grand hallway. Dante was standing by the large bay windows, staring out at the rain-soaked street.
He had taken off his suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the dark ink of a family crest tattooed on his forearm.
I walked up behind him.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For getting her back.”
Dante turned. His eyes dropped to my right wrist.
He reached out, his warm fingers gently tracing the edge of the dark purple bruises Sofia had left.
“I should have broken her hand,” Dante murmured.
My breath caught at the quiet violence in his voice—a violence meant entirely to protect me.
“I’m okay,” I said, pulling back slightly, reminding myself that I was just the maid.
Dante didn’t let me pull away. He held my hand gently.
“The address on the back of the ticket,” Dante said. “It’s in Brooklyn. An old nursing home.”
“My uncle,” I said, the words feeling foreign in my mouth. “My mother told me he died in a car crash. Why would she lie to me my whole life?”
“Because she was trying to keep you alive,” Dante said. He let go of my hand and reached into his pocket.
He pulled out the heavy silver key.
“This key belongs to a safety deposit box. But the bank transferred all its old lockboxes to a private vault facility ten years ago. We can’t get in without the box number.”
I frowned. “Wasn’t there a number on the envelope?”
“No. Just the key.” Dante rubbed his jaw in frustration. “If Arthur Collins is alive, he knows the number. He’s the one who gave the key to my mother.”
“Then we go to Brooklyn,” I said.
“I am going to Brooklyn,” Dante corrected. “You are staying here, with Marco and a detail of guards. It’s too dangerous.”
“No.” I stepped in front of him. “If that’s my family, I’m going. You can’t stop me.”
Dante stared down at me. For a second, I thought he was going to argue. But he saw the absolute resolve in my eyes.
He sighed. “Fine. But you don’t leave my side. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Before we could leave, Marco, Dante’s head of security, walked into the hallway.
“Sir,” Marco said. “The cars are ready. But there’s a problem.”
“What?”
“I just did a sweep of the basement,” Marco said. “The cedar closet has been broken into.”
Dante’s brow furrowed. “The winter storage?”
“Yes. Someone forced the lock.”
I exchanged a look with Dante.
“Show me,” Dante said.
We followed Marco down the narrow stone steps into the basement. The air was cold, smelling of cedar and old dust.
The heavy wooden door to the storage closet was splintered open.
Inside, dozens of expensive coats hung in plastic garment bags.
“Nothing appears to be stolen,” Marco said. “But someone was definitely searching for something.”
I stepped into the closet.
I knew this room well. I organized it every spring.
I walked down the row of coats, scanning the garment bags.
Then I stopped.
Near the back, a specific garment bag was unzipped.
I reached inside and pulled out a heavy, navy blue wool coat.
It belonged to Dante’s mother. It had hung here untouched since she died five years ago.
But something was wrong.
“The lining,” I said, touching the inside of the coat.
Dante stepped up beside me. “What about it?”
“It’s been ripped open.” I held up the hem. The silk lining had been slashed with a knife.
Dante reached his hand inside the tear.
His fingers pulled something out.
It was a small, folded child’s drawing.
Crayon on construction paper. A picture of a house, a tree, and a little boy holding his mother’s hand.
Dante stared at the drawing. He looked like he had seen a ghost.
“I drew this,” Dante whispered. “I gave this to my mother when I was six.”
He carefully unfolded the paper.
On the back, written in his mother’s elegant handwriting, were four numbers.
8-0-1-4.
I looked at the numbers. “The deposit box.”
Dante closed his eyes for a second, relief washing over his face. “She hid it here. She knew Carlo would never look in her old winter clothes.”
“Boss,” Marco said from the doorway.
We both turned.
Marco was holding his gun.
May you like
But it wasn’t pointed at the door.
It was pointed directly at Dante’s chest.
