Chapter 2
1497words
Down here, even the walls couldn't listen.
Marco was old-school, from my father's generation—silver-streaked hair and eyes that had seen too much to ever waver.
"Marco," I said quietly, "I need you to track someone down. Tony."
Marco's weathered face creased into a frown.
He understood the implications immediately.
"Madam, the timing is dangerous," he murmured. "Vincent is rallying supporters. He's watching your every move, waiting for you to stumble."
"That's exactly why I need the truth," I met his gaze unflinchingly. "Dante's death stinks to high heaven, and Tony's disappeared into thin air. If this is what I think it is, I refuse to sit around waiting for my turn."
My determination silenced Marco momentarily. I watched the conflict play across his face before hardening into resolve. He gave that slight bow of his—old-world, a gesture that meant more than any oath.
"I'll make it happen, using my own channels," he said. "But promise me this—until we know for certain, you'll keep your composure. Especially around Vincent."
"Understood," I nodded, feeling a fraction of the weight lift from my chest.
Our pact was sealed there among the aging wines, without another word needed.
A week later, Marco returned, exhaustion etched into his features and a fresh scar slicing across his cheekbone.
"I've got something," he placed a thin folder on the table. "It wasn't cheap."
I flipped open the folder to find just two sheets of paper.
The first showed grainy airport surveillance footage—blurry but unmistakably Tony's profile.
"The day of the funeral, he flew to Miami," Marco explained. "Used a fake ID. That photo cost thirty grand from my contact at the airport."
My heart clenched.
"And the bank records?"
"Working on it," Marco shook his head. "Dante kept his money in offshore accounts—not easy to trace. I've got a guy in Switzerland digging, but it'll take time."
"What about those Wednesday disappearances?" I pressed.
Marco hesitated. "I'm piecing together his driver logs, but someone's wiped most of them clean."
"Check traffic cameras, then."
"Ma'am," Marco leaned in, voice barely audible, "Vincent's crew is sniffing around too. If we push too hard, they'll notice."
I stared at the grainy image. Tony was alive, which meant Dante's secret was still out there, waiting to be uncovered.
"Keep digging," I said coldly. "Whatever it takes."
Three days later, Marco returned with more.
"Got an address." He slid a handwritten note across the table. "Suburban villa, not in any Rossi holdings, registered to a shell company. But my guy swears Dante visited every Wednesday like clockwork."
"Your informant—is he reliable?"
"Was," Marco replied flatly. "Throat cut in his apartment last night."
I stared at the circled address, rage building inside me like magma beneath a dormant volcano.
"We move tonight," I said, my tone brooking no argument.
"Too risky!" Marco protested. "We don't know what we're walking into. If anything happens to you—"
"If I do nothing, I'm already dead," I cut him off, my voice glacial. "I need to see Dante's secrets with my own eyes. Have the car ready at dusk."
Dusk painted the sky blood-red as we pulled up to the secluded villa. It stood alone among the trees, beautiful and isolated—a gilded cage.
"Stay with the car," I told Marco, then slipped alone toward the rear of the house.
The lock yielded easily to my hairpin—a skill from my street days that now seemed darkly ironic.
Inside, the décor screamed money—sleek and modern. But the air reeked of perfume, cloyingly sweet and unmistakably feminine. A silk wrap lay carelessly tossed over the sofa, and on the coffee table, a half-empty wine glass bore a perfect crimson lipstick print.
My heart plummeted like a stone.
I crept upstairs to the master bedroom, where evidence of another woman was impossible to miss. Designer jewelry and high-end cosmetics littered the vanity, and the open closet displayed dresses I'd never seen—all cut low and tight.
Just as I reached for the nightstand drawer, the rumble of an engine cut through the silence, followed by laughter—a man and woman. His voice, so achingly familiar, sliced through me like a blade.
Dante.
My mind froze. Pure instinct drove me into the walk-in closet, leaving just enough space to see through the crack.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. The bedroom door flew open as two figures stumbled in, pawing at each other like animals in heat.
There stood Dante—my supposedly dead husband—with a raven-haired beauty I'd never seen.
"Slow down, baby," the woman purred, her laugh like tinkling crystal.
"I've been dying for you all day." Dante's voice was rough with desire as he pinned her against the door, his mouth devouring her neck while his hands roamed greedily beneath her blouse.
Through that narrow gap, I watched the scene unfold in horrific clarity. My husband—the man Chicago had mourned—very much alive and consumed with passion for another woman.
They clawed at each other's clothes, leaving a trail across the floor. Dante hiked up her black dress, exposing long, pale thighs.
My breath caught in my throat.
Around her slender neck gleamed a diamond necklace that caught the light.
I recognized it instantly—my third anniversary gift, custom-designed, one of a kind. Two months ago, Dante had claimed he'd "lost it during a business trip."
Now I understood. Not lost—gifted to his mistress.
"Just a few more days," Dante growled as he pushed her onto the bed and covered her body with his. "Once my 'funeral' wraps up and that moron Vincent inherits the shitstorm, we're home free."
"Your wife—that pathetic little mouse—is she still weeping over your empty coffin?" The woman—Valentina—laughed, wrapping herself around him like a vine. "Poor thing would never guess her husband is fucking me right now."
"Don't talk about her," Dante snapped impatiently. They fell into breathless laughter as they tangled together, the bed frame protesting beneath them.
"Stupid bitch…"
Those words pierced me like a poisoned blade, twisting deep into my heart.
I crouched in the darkness, nails cutting crescents into my palms. The physical pain was nothing compared to the rage and humiliation burning through me. I bit my lip until I tasted copper, fighting every instinct to burst out and rip them both to shreds.
I don't know how long I endured—minutes that stretched like years—before they finally finished and disappeared into the bathroom amid playful whispers and laughter.
Only when I heard the shower running did I slip from the closet like a ghost and flee that suffocating hell.
I collapsed into Marco's car, my body convulsing with tremors I couldn't control, teeth chattering like castanets.
"Christ, what happened?" Marco's eyes widened at my tear-streaked face and bloodied lip. "What did you find in there?"
I could only shake my head, my throat constricted as if filled with burning sand.
"Drive," I finally managed to rasp.
The car glided onto the highway, city lights blurring past the window like some fever dream.
"Madam," Marco broke the suffocating silence, "my contact just confirmed that in the two weeks before Dante's 'accident,' he moved twenty million dollars through various offshore accounts."
I stared at my reflection in the window—a hollow-eyed ghost staring back.
"I know," I said, my voice unnervingly steady. "I just heard him say they're planning to disappear as soon as the funeral circus ends. With Valentina Luciano."
Marco slammed the brakes, tires screaming against asphalt. He whipped around to face me. "Luciano? Don Luciano's daughter? Our biggest rival?"
I closed my eyes without answering. The betrayal was complete—Dante hadn't just faked his death and stolen our money. He'd been sleeping with our enemy's daughter. He'd made fools of me and the entire Rossi family.
Back at the estate, I bypassed my bedroom and marched straight to Dante's study.
I pushed open the heavy oak door and strode to the massive desk, lowering myself into the leather chair that symbolized power. It still smelled faintly of him, but the scent no longer stirred anything but contempt.
The grief in my eyes had vanished completely.
In its place burned something colder, deadlier—rage and ambition, crystallized into purpose.
Marco stood silently in the doorway, watching.
As I settled into the seat of power, something flickered across his weathered face.
Surprise, followed by something deeper—respect.
He was no longer looking at Dante's widow.
He was looking at a leader.
I raised my eyes to meet his, my gaze honed to a killing edge.
"Find everyone still loyal to my father's memory, to the code that Dante claimed to uphold." My voice was quiet but carried the weight of steel.
"I don't just want revenge," I enunciated each word with deadly precision. "I want the whole damn family."
The corner of Marco's mouth twitched.
Not with doubt—with the barest hint of savage anticipation.
"Yes, madam." He bowed slightly. "Right away."
When he turned to leave, his steps carried new purpose.
