Chapter 3 - The Ghost from the Past
The interior of Dante’s estate was breathtakingly minimalist yet overwhelmingly opulent. Polished dark wood floors, soaring ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and priceless art pieces lined the hallways. Yet, despite the grandeur, an oppressive silence hung in the air—the silence of a man who ruled an empire built on fear and precision.
Orion trotted right beside me, his shoulder brushing against my knee the entire way. Dante noticed, his gaze dropping to the dog before flickering back up to me with a calculating intensity.
We entered a massive, sunlit study overlooking the river. A roaring fire crackled in a grand marble fireplace, taking the chill out of the morning. On a massive mahogany desk sat an open manila folder, its contents partially exposed.
Dante walked behind the desk but didn't sit down. Instead, he leaned against the edge, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Leave us," Dante ordered without looking back.
The two guards who had escorted me nodded curtly and stepped out, closing the heavy mahogany doors with a soft click.
"Sit down, Olivia," Dante said, gesturing to a plush leather armchair opposite his desk.
I hesitated, then sat down. Orion immediately curled up on the rug right beside my chair, resting his heavy chin squarely on my shoe. I couldn't move my foot, but surprisingly, I didn't mind.
Dante picked up a single sheet of paper from the folder. His gray eyes were dark, shadowed by thoughts I couldn't even begin to guess.
"You told your manager your name was Olivia Marshall," Dante began, his voice dangerously soft. "You work double shifts at a mid-tier restaurant in Manhattan. You live in a cramped studio apartment in Astoria. You pay your rent on time, your credit score is clean, and your tax returns are spotless."
"That's because I'm an honest person," I replied defensively, sitting up a little straighter. "Is there a crime in working for a living?"
"No," Dante replied, tossing the paper back onto the desk. "The crime isn't the problem. The impossibility is."
He leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the dark wood.
"Twenty-four years ago, an accountant named Thomas Marshall worked for my father. He discovered a multi-million-dollar embezzlement scheme orchestrated by one of our capos—a betrayal that nearly fractured our entire organization. Before my father could protect him, Thomas Marshall, his wife, and their four-year-old daughter were targeted."
My breath hitched. The room suddenly felt very small.
"Their car was run off the Hudson River bridge," Dante continued, his voice dropping an octave, losing all its warmth. "The car plunged into the freezing water. Divers recovered the wreckage. They found my father's ledger, scattered across the riverbed... and they found the bodies of Thomas and his wife."
A cold sweat broke out across the back of my neck. My fingers gripped the armrests of the chair until my knuckles turned white.
"They never found the little girl's body," Dante whispered, locking his piercing gray eyes onto mine. "The official police report assumed she was swept out to sea. But my father spent decades looking for her, believing she had survived. When he passed away five years ago, I inherited that search."
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Dante pushed the open folder across the desk toward me. At the top of the page was a faded photograph of a smiling couple holding a toddler with big, curious eyes. Below it was a birth certificate, adoption records from a closed-door foster system in upstate New York, and a DNA matching report generated that very morning.
"Olivia," Dante said, his voice trembling ever so slightly—a crack in the armor of a man who never showed weakness. "Your real name isn't Olivia Marshall. Your name is Elena Moretti's cousin... no. Your name is Elena Marshall. Your father was Thomas Marshall. And according to every record in existence, you died in that car crash twenty-four years ago."
