Chapter 4 - THE TORN PHOTOGRAPH
The guests screamed. Champagne glasses shattered against the marble floor as people dove for cover.
Dante didn’t flinch. He just stood there, still holding my arm.
“Marco,” Dante said. “You’ve been with me for fifteen years.”
“And Arturo was with your father for twenty,” Marco replied, his gun steady. “Loyalty has an expiration date when the Chicago outfit offers you a seat at the table. Put the coat down, Nora.”
I squeezed the heavy wool of Dante’s coat.
“Marco was the one who set up car 1912,” Sofia whispered from the floor, realization dawning on her face. “You blackmailed me. You took my daughter.”
“She’s perfectly safe, Ms. Bellandi. As long as Dante gets into that car.” Marco gestured with the gun. “Walk to the elevator, Dante. Both of you.”
Dante slowly raised his hands. But as he moved, he subtly shifted his weight, placing himself slightly in front of me.
“You need the ledger, Marco,” Dante said. “The one Arturo hid. That’s what Chicago really wants. The three million was just a distraction.”
“I’ll find it,” Marco said.
“No, you won't.” Dante reached slowly into his inner jacket pocket.
Marco tensed. “Hands where I can see them!”
Dante pulled out a torn, faded photograph. He tossed it onto the glass coffee table.
It was a picture of three men. A young Dante, Marco, and a smiling man with kind eyes. My father.
“Arturo didn't take the ledger, Marco,” Dante said. “You did. Ten years ago. You framed him. You made him run.”
My breath hitched. The man who ruined my family was standing right in front of me.
Marco laughed. A dry, nervous sound. “And who is going to believe a dead man?”
“I’m not dead yet,” Dante said.
With a sudden, violent motion, Dante kicked the heavy glass coffee table directly into Marco’s knees.
The gun fired.
The bullet shattered the chandelier above us. Glass rained down like diamonds.
Dante tackled Marco to the floor. I didn’t think; I just reacted. I grabbed the heavy brass stanchion from the coat check line and swung it down, catching Marco on the shoulder.
He yelled in pain, dropping the gun.
Dante delivered a punishing blow to Marco’s jaw, knocking him out cold.
The penthouse was completely silent except for the weeping of the guests and the jazz trio’s overturned cello humming against the floor.
Dante stood up, breathing heavily. He looked at me, taking in my cheap uniform, my practical shoes, and the brass stanchion in my hands.
“You have a good swing, Nora.”
“I’m from Queens,” I said, my hands shaking. “Where is my mother?”
Dante picked up Marco’s dropped cell phone. He unlocked it using Marco’s unconscious face.
He read the last received message.
May you like
Dante looked up at me, his eyes dark with something I couldn't read.
“She’s at the one place Arturo swore he’d never go back to.”
