Chapter 3 - An Uninvited Guest
Dante did not jump, but his entire posture shifted instantly. The relaxed posture vanished, replaced by a rigid, dangerous alertness. He set his coffee cup down on the desk without making a sound.
Tomas entered the library a second later, moving quickly and quietly. “It’s Moretti,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He brought three cars. They’re parked across the lower gate.”
Rosie looked between the two men, sensing the immediate rise in tension. The air in the room seemed to grow thin and heavy.
“Does he know she’s here?” Dante asked smoothly.
“No,” Tomas replied. “He says he came to discuss the ice delay at the locks. But he’s got five men with him, and two of them are carrying long coats.”
Dante turned to Rosie. His dark eyes were cold, calculating options at lightning speed. “Rosalie. Go back to your room. Lock the door and do not open it for anyone except me or Tomas.”
“Mr. Valerio, what’s happening?” Rosie asked, her hand instinctively reaching for her crutch.
“An inconvenient conversation,” Dante said, his tone utterly devoid of emotion. “Tomas, take her through the rear gallery.”
Rosie didn't argue. The cold dread in her stomach told her that whatever was about to walk through the front door had nothing to do with river transportation and everything to do with the dark, violent underworld Dante inhabited. She grabbed her crutch, pushed herself upright, and followed Tomas out through a side door disguised as a bookshelf.
They moved quickly through a narrow, oak-paneled passage that smelled of beeswax and old paper. Halfway down the corridor, Tomas stopped, gesturing for her to step into a small alcove hidden behind a heavy velvet drape that overlooked the main entrance hall from a second-story interior balcony.
“Stay here,” Tomas whispered, his hand resting on the grip of a shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket. “If things go wrong, there is a staircase at the end of this hall that leads directly to the garage. The keys to the silver truck are on the peg beside the door.”
He pressed a heavy brass key into her palm and disappeared back down the passage before she could object.
Rosie held her breath, peering through a small gap in the velvet curtains.
Below, the massive double doors swung open, letting in a gust of freezing wind and swirling snow. Four men stepped into the grand foyer, stamping their boots on the marble floor. At their head walked Julian Moretti—a tall, gaunt man in his late fifties with slicked-back gray hair, a sharp nose, and a tailored coat lined with dark fur. His eyes were small, wet, and restless, moving over the high ceilings and oil paintings with obvious envy.
Dante stepped out into the foyer alone, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets.
“Julian,” Dante said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the vaulted space. “You’ve brought a great deal of mud into my house.”
Moretti laughed—a dry, rasping sound like dry leaves scraping across concrete. “It’s a bad day to be particular about floors, Dante. The river is frozen solid from here to Wheeling. My men are cold.”
“Your men can wait in their cars,” Dante replied coldly. “State your business.”
Moretti took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. “My business is simple. I have four barges of electronic components sitting near Dock Four. The Coast Guard says the river belongs to Valerio Freight until the thaw. I want my cargo moved to the rail yard by sunset.”
“The rail lines are closed by order of the governor,” Dante said. “And no one moves cargo through my docks without paying the transit fee. You know the rules, Julian. Your father helped write them.”
Moretti’s face darkened, a ugly red flush creeping up his thin neck. “My father is dead! And I am tired of paying tribute to a man who sits in a mansion playing king of the river while the rest of us take all the risks!”
Behind Moretti, two of his men shifted their weight, their hands sliding beneath their heavy coats.
Up in the hidden balcony, Rosie’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She watched Dante carefully. He hadn't moved an inch. He stood alone against four armed men, his expression completely unreadable, displaying neither fear nor anger.
“You are free to use the public docks in Ohio,” Dante said softly. “If you think your trucks can make it through six feet of snow on the mountain passes.”
“You’re pushing me, Dante,” Moretti snarled, stepping closer until he was barely two feet from Dante’s chest. “You think because you have the judges in your pocket and the union bosses on your payroll that you’re untouchable? Times are changing. The young guys on the East Side don't care about your old agreements.”
Moretti reached out, flicking a speck of snow from Dante’s lapel with a gloved finger.
In a move so fast Rosie barely saw it happen, Dante grabbed Moretti’s wrist, twisted it back sharply, and slammed the older man face-first against the heavy oak pillar supporting the foyer archway.
A loud crunch echoed through the hall as Moretti’s nose collided with the wood.
Moretti gasped in pain, dropping to his knees. His three bodyguards instantly pulled heavy handguns from their coats, pointing them at Dante.
Before they could clear their holsters, the side doors of the foyer burst open. Tomas, Marco, and four other Valerio guards flooded the room, their weapons already raised and locked onto Moretti’s men.
The silence that followed was absolute, razor-sharp, and deadly.
Dante stood over Moretti, holding the man’s wrist twisted behind his back with effortless strength. He didn't even look at the guns pointed at his heart.
“You came into my house,” Dante whispered into Moretti’s ear, his voice smooth and terrifyingly quiet. “You brought weapons under my roof. And you put your hands on me.”
Moretti groaned, blood dripping from his nose onto the white marble floor. “Dante... wait... it was just business...”
“Get him out of here,” Dante commanded, releasing his grip and stepping back. “If I see any of Moretti’s boats near Dock Four before the ice thaws, sink them.”
Tomas stepped forward, grabbing Moretti by his coat collar and dragging him toward the door like a sack of wet laundry. His men backed out slowly, their eyes fixed on Dante’s guards, their weapons held low until the heavy iron doors slammed shut behind them.
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Up in the balcony, Rosie let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her forehead resting against the cool wood of the railing. She had just witnessed the absolute, terrifying reality of who Dante Valerio was.
He was not a shipping executive. He was a ruthless mob boss who ruled the river with an iron fist.
