Chapter 7 - THE BROTHER AND THE FATHER WHO NEVER REALLY LEFT
I did not ask Dante’s permission.
I closed my laptop, grabbed my coat, and headed for the elevator.
He followed.
“Where are you going?”
“To Ethan.”
“So am I.”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“This is my brother.”
“And Anthony is mine.”
I stopped.
That shut me up.
Barely.
We drove to the residential facility in silence.
No convoy.
No soldiers.
Just Dante, Tommy, and me.
I had never brought Dante into Ethan’s world before.
It felt wrong.
Too polished.
Too dangerous.
Too connected to the part of my life where I was simply Emily, not the woman who managed schedules for a Mafia boss.
The facility sat on twenty wooded acres outside Naperville.
Quiet.
Clean.
Warm.
Ethan loved the courtyard because squirrels came close enough for him to name them.
When I entered his room, he was watching a baseball game.
He looked at Dante.
Then at me.
“Wow.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“You brought Batman.”
Dante looked at me.
I covered my mouth.
Ethan grinned.
At twenty-four, his speech was slower than most adults’, but his timing remained vicious.
“This is Dante.”
“I know.”
I stared.
“How?”
Ethan shrugged.
“Dad showed me.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“Dad?”
Ethan’s smile disappeared.
He looked uncertain.
“Wasn’t supposed to say?”
I sat beside him.
“No.”
My voice shook.
“No, it’s okay.”
Dante moved farther back, giving us space.
“When did Dad come here?”
Ethan thought.
“Sometimes.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
That one word hurt more than I expected.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ethan frowned.
“He said you were mad.”
I laughed once.
“I was.”
“He said you should be.”
That surprised me.
I looked at Dante.
His expression had softened.
“Did Dad say where he lives?”
Ethan nodded.
“With Tony sometimes.”
Tony.
Anthony.
“Did Tony come too?”
“Yes.”
“What do they talk about?”
Ethan rolled his eyes.
“Old people stuff.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“Very helpful.”
“Trucks. Clara. Chicago.”
Dante stepped closer.
“Clara?”
Ethan looked at him.
“Your wife.”
Dante went still.
“How do you know that?”
“Tony showed pictures.”
Ethan reached toward his bedside drawer.
His hands were slow.
I helped.
Inside was a stack of photographs.
My father.
Anthony.
Clara.
Rosa.
Lake Street warehouse.
And one picture of Dante and Clara at a restaurant.
Dante took it carefully.
“I’ve never seen this.”
Ethan smiled.
“She looks nice.”
“She was.”
My throat tightened.
“Did Dad leave anything here?”
Ethan pointed toward the closet.
A blue winter coat hung inside.
Not his.
I knew it instantly.
My father’s.
Again.
In the pocket was a train ticket.
Chicago Union Station to Milwaukee.
Two days earlier.
Dante looked at me.
“He was here recently.”
Ethan nodded.
“Tuesday.”
My hands shook.
“What did he say?”
“He said he had to finish something.”
“What?”
Ethan shrugged.
Then remembered.
“He gave me this.”
From beneath his blanket, he pulled a small silver key.
Attached was a red plastic tag.
L.S. 17.
Lake Street.
Dante and I looked at each other.
The old warehouse.
Unit 17.
We left Ethan only after I promised I would return Sunday.
Dante waited until we were outside.
“You okay?”
“No.”
He nodded.
That was enough.
We went directly to Lake Street.
The warehouse still operated.
Forklifts moved pallets.
Union workers checked manifests.
Men lowered their voices when Dante walked through.
He ignored them.
Unit 17 was an old records room near the loading docks.
The silver key opened it.
Inside were shelves of dusty binders.
A desk.
Two chairs.
And a wall covered with photographs.
Clara.
Rosa.
Anthony.
Matthew.
Paul Santoro.
Enzo.
Carlo.
Luca.
Every person connected to the old bombing.
At the center was one photograph.
Dante’s father, Enzo.
Standing beside a man I recognized immediately.
Victor Rinaldi.
The rival boss.
The man who had stood in Dante’s office only days earlier.
Under the photograph, Anthony had written:
THEIR TRUCE STARTED BEFORE CLARA DIED.
Dante stared.
“Enzo and Rinaldi were already working together.”
I frowned.
“The family history says the truce came after years of war.”
“Exactly.”
A second photograph showed Enzo and Victor outside a union hall.
Date stamped three months before the bombing.
Another showed Carlo in the background.
Then Luca.
“Everyone knew except you,” I said.
Dante gave a humorless smile.
“Story of my life.”
A binder labeled CICERO ROUTES sat on the desk.
Inside were trucking schedules.
Union votes.
Warehouse transfers.
A pattern emerged.
Nine years ago, Enzo and Victor had secretly planned to merge several distribution routes.
Not families.
Business interests.
The deal threatened men who profited from the old territorial divide.
Especially independent capos who controlled trucking and union labor.
Paul Santoro was paid to kill Enzo before the alliance became public.
“By whom?” I asked.
Dante turned a page.
Nothing.
The final section was missing.
Torn out.
A note remained.
MATTHEW HAS THE NAME.
My pulse jumped.
“Where is he?”
Dante searched the desk.
No clue.
Tommy examined the wall.
“Boss.”
He pointed toward a child’s drawing pinned in one corner.
Crayon.
A house.
Three people.
One taller man labeled DAD.
One boy labeled ETHAN.
One girl labeled EM.
My drawing.
I remembered it.
I had made it when I was eleven.
Before my mother died.
My father had kept it.
On the back was an address.
Not in Chicago.
Milwaukee.
Dante looked at me.
“Recognize it?”
“No.”
Tommy searched his phone.
“Small repair shop. South side.”
Two hours later, we stood outside DAVIS MOTOR & MACHINE.
My knees felt weak.
The shop was closed.
Lights off.
But through the front window, I saw him.
Older.
Gray hair.
Thin.
Sitting at a workbench.
My father.
Matthew Davis.
Nineteen years collapsed.
He looked up.
Saw me.
And slowly stood.
I expected anger.
Questions.
An explanation.
Instead, his eyes filled.
He came to the door and unlocked it.
“Emily.”
I had imagined this moment a thousand times.
I slapped him.
Not hard.
But enough.
Dante looked away.
My father accepted it.
“I deserved worse.”
“Why?”
My voice cracked.
“Why did you leave?”
Matthew looked at Dante.
Then back at me.
“Because they threatened you.”
I froze.
“Who?”
He reached beneath the workbench.
Pulled out an old black ledger.
Placed it between us.
“The man who ordered Clara Marino’s death.”
Dante stepped forward.
Matthew shook his head.
“No.”
“You want the name?”
“Yes.”
“Then you hear everything first.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
Matthew opened the ledger.
Inside was one photograph.
Dante’s uncle Luca.
Beside Paul Santoro.
My stomach dropped.
Dante went completely still.
Matthew looked at him.
“Luca didn’t order the bomb.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed.
“Then why is his picture here?”
“Because he knew who did.”
Matthew turned the page.
And pointed to the name beneath it.
GIANNI RUSSO.
May you like
The union representative who had been helping us.
The man who had led us to everyone else.
