Chapter 8 - Shadows in the Fresh Paint
Z
The smell of wet mahogany, high-end varnish, and roasted espresso beans filled the grand dining room of the new Bellini’s. Outside, the autumn rain drizzled against the tinted glass windows, reflecting the neon hum of the West Side skyline. From the outside, it was a triumph—a high-end, legitimate sanctuary where politicians, artists, and reformed CEOs came to dine without fear of stray bullets or wiretaps.
I stood behind the marble bar, polishing a crystal glass, watching Dante sitting at his usual corner booth. He looked rested. The dark circles under his eyes had faded, replaced by a calm, controlled authority that suited his clean-tailored dark suit. For three whole months, the city had been peaceful. The Moretti syndicate was dissolved, its assets transferred into legitimate logistics and real estate firms, and Vanessa was awaiting trial in a federal facility three states away.
We were living the dream we had bled for.
Until a boy in a wet canvas jacket slipped through the front doors, skipping the maître d' completely, and dropped a damp, unmarked manila envelope onto my bar counter.
"Delivery for Miss Fields," the boy grunted before vanishing back out into the rain before I could even ask for a name.
My fingers hesitated over the thick paper. The last time someone dropped an envelope in front of me, it contained fifty thousand dollars in hush money and a death threat. I picked it up, my heart doing an uncomfortable flutter against my ribs. Inside was not money. It was a single, black-and-white photograph printed on glossy paper.
It was a photo of me, taken less than twenty minutes ago, through the very window I was standing near. I was holding a coffee pot, smiling at Luca as he adjusted a table setting.
On the back of the photo, written in jagged, dark blue ink, were six words:
He didn't destroy it. He buried it.
My breath caught in my throat. I turned the photo over, my mind racing. A second piece of paper slipped out from the envelope—a photocopy of a bank ledger dated just five days ago. It bore the crest of a private Swiss institution and listed a wire transfer of twelve million dollars from a Moretti shell company to a bank in Panama.
Signed with a signature I recognized instantly: Dante Moretti.
My stomach dropped into a cold, hollow abyss. Twelve million dollars flowing through an illegal off-shore account after Dante had swore under oath to the federal prosecutors that all illicit accounts had been liquidated.
I looked across the dimly lit restaurant at Dante. He was reviewing a wine menu, completely oblivious to the paper in my trembling hands. Was it a fake? A plant by Vanessa’s remaining loyalists to tear us apart? Or had the man I saved—the man I was falling in love with—simply lied to everyone, including me, about walking away from the shadows?
I gripped the edge of the bar, trying to keep my breathing steady. Luca walked up behind the counter to restock the silver trays, catching the pale shift in my face immediately.
"Cara?" Luca asked softly, his sharp grey eyes narrowing as he noticed the envelope in my bandaged hand. "You look as though you’ve seen a ghost."
"Luca," I whispered, keeping my voice low so it wouldn't carry across the quiet dining room. "When Dante signed the federal agreement... did he clear every account?"
Luca’s expression didn't change, but his shoulders went rigid beneath his tailored coat. "Of course. The auditors spent six weeks in his office. Why do you ask?"
I pushed the photocopy across the marble counter toward him.
Luca picked it up. His eyes scanned the numbers, the dates, and the distinctive flourish of Dante's signature at the bottom. For a fraction of a second, a look of profound, terrifying dread crossed his aged face—a look I had never seen on him, not even when we were crouching beside a overturned car in a thunderstorm.
"Where did you get this?" Luca asked, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
"A messenger dropped it off two minutes ago," I said, tears burning the backs of my eyes. "Is it real, Luca? Did he lie to me?"
Before Luca could answer, the bell above the front entrance chimed.
A tall man in an expensive charcoal coat walked in, shaking the rain off his umbrella. He didn't wait for a host. He walked straight past the empty tables, his eyes fixed on Dante's booth. He pulled back his coat, revealing a gold badge clipped to his belt.
May you like
Federal Agent Marcus Vance. The man leading the prosecution against Vanessa.
"Mr. Moretti," Vance’s voice boomed softly across the quiet restaurant, laced with smooth, deadly satisfaction. "I hope you enjoyed your brief retirement. You're going to want to put down that wine list. We have a search warrant for the premises."
