Chapter 3 - Dawn and Demands
The morning sun hit the sprawling gardens of the Moretti estate with deceptive serenity. From my window, I could see the dew sparkling across the manicured hedges and the distant, gunmetal grey line of Lake Michigan.
I hadn’t slept a wink. The photograph of my brother sat locked inside my metal footlocker, burning a hole in my consciousness. If Dante had my brother, and Vincent knew about it, then the entire game I thought I was playing—the undercover sister seeking justice—was nothing more than a mouse running through a maze designed by a cat who was thoroughly entertained by the spectacle.
At 7:00 AM sharp, a knock rattled my door.
It wasn't Marco this time. It was a young housemaid with wide eyes, holding a silver tray with a steaming cup of black coffee and a small white envelope.
“Mr. Moretti requests your presence in the solarium,” the girl whispered nervously. “Immediately.”
“Does he usually summon staff at dawn?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Mr. Moretti doesn't have a usual schedule,” she replied, practically fleeing down the hall.
I didn't bother changing into my standard uniform dress. I pulled on dark denim jeans, a fitted black turtleneck, and heavy boots—gear that felt more suited for a confrontation than dusting antique bureaus.
The solarium was a breathtaking glass-domed room at the eastern tip of the mansion, filled with towering palms, orchids, and sunlight that felt entirely too bright for someone carrying the weight of a cartel conspiracy.
Vincent sat at a wrought-iron table in the center of the room, reading the morning edition of the Chicago Tribune while sipping espresso. He wore a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the lean, corded muscle and faint, jagged scars of a man who had earned every inch of his empire through blood and iron.
He didn't look up as I approached.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I was busy processing the fact that your inner circle is holding my brother hostage while you pretend to run a respectable estate,” I fired back, pulling out the chair opposite him without an invitation and sitting down hard.
Vincent slowly lowered the newspaper. His dark eyes locked onto mine, completely devoid of warmth.
“You have a remarkable talent for testing boundaries, Elena,” he said softly. “Most people realize they’re out of their depth within forty-eight hours. You required an indoor flood and a stolen personnel file.”
“Where is he?” I demanded, leaning across the table. My hands were clenched into tight fists in my lap. “If Dante touched a hair on his head—if you hurt him——”
“If I hurt him, he would already be fertilizer beneath these rosebushes,” Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping into that chilling, flat register that silenced rooms. He didn't raise his voice, but the absolute authority behind it made my breath catch. “Your brother, Leo, is an idiot. He embezzled four hundred thousand dollars from a Vanguard shipping account controlled by our primary narcotics distributor in the Sinaloa syndicate, thinking he could skim off the top to pay off his gambling debts.”
I froze. “That’s... that’s a lie. Leo isn't a criminal. He’s an accountant!”
“Leo is a compulsive gambler who thought he could outsmart men who hang people from meat hooks for a living,” Vincent corrected coldly, tossing a second file across the glass table. It landed right in front of me. “Read the bank statements. That’s why he vanished. Not because I kidnapped him, but because my men pulled him out of a motel room in Cicero two hours before a Sinaloa cleanup crew arrived to carve him into pieces.”
My fingers trembled as I opened the folder. Row after row of wire transfers, casino receipts, and offshore debt markers stared back at me. It was all real. Every word of it. The panic that had sustained my anger suddenly collapsed, leaving behind a hollow, sickening realization.
I had blamed Vincent Moretti for everything, when in reality, his men had literally pulled my stupid, reckless brother out of a shallow grave.
“Why?” I whispered, looking up at Vincent through a blur of sudden, angry tears. “Why save him? If he stole from you—if he’s a liability—why not just let them take him?”
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Vincent poured a cup of coffee from the silver pot and pushed it across the table toward me. His expression softened by a fraction—just enough to make my heart skip an entirely unwanted beat.
“Because,” Vincent said quietly, “Leo was terrified out of his mind, and when my enforcers cornered him, the only thing he screamed was that he couldn't die because he had a little sister who depended on him.” Vincent paused, his dark eyes searching my face. “It reminded me of someone I lost a long time ago. People like us, Elena... we don't have many family members left to protect.”
