Chapter 3 - The Iron Fortress
The armored black SUV smelled of expensive leather, ozone, and a faint hint of cedarwood.
I sat in the middle row of the cavernous vehicle, sandwiched between two towering bodyguards whose suit jackets bulged suspiciously under the arms. Across from me sat Dante Moretti. He had removed his tuxedo jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick forearms corded with muscle and faint, jagged scars that hinted at a violent past.
Luca was sleeping soundly with his head resting in his father’s lap, one small fist clutching the lapel of Dante’s vest.
Outside the tinted windows, the neon lights of Manhattan blurred into streaks of rain and color. We weren’t heading toward my run-down apartment in Queens, nor were we heading toward any known residential neighborhood. The convoy had crossed the Triborough Bridge twenty minutes ago and was now winding its way up the secluded, heavily guarded cliffs of Riverdale.
“Where are we going?” I asked, breaking the long silence that had filled the cabin since we left the Pierre Hotel.
Dante didn’t look up from his son’s face. “To my home. A fortress, depending on who you ask.”
“And what happens to me when we get there? Do I get locked in a basement dungeon?”
Dante finally raised his dark eyes, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe. “If I wanted you locked in a dungeon, Miss Vance, you would already be there. You are here because my son stopped crying the moment you touched him, and because someone used your dead brother’s face to send me a message.”
“I told you, I don’t know anything about that photograph!” My voice rose, cracking slightly at the end. “Danny died. I watched him take his last breath in a sterile hospital room. There is no conspiracy; there is no clone; there is just a grieving sister who tried to help a terrified kid and got dragged into a nightmare!”
“People grief-stricken make mistakes,” Dante said calmly. “And people with hidden agendas count on that grief.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me about your brother.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know who I’m dealing with. Start from the beginning. How old was he when he died?”
I crossed my arms tightly over my chest, staring out the window at the dark silhouette of the iron gates we were currently passing through. The estate beyond was massive—a sprawling stone mansion surrounded by acres of manicured lawns and private security outposts.
“He was ten,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. “His name was Daniel. He loved trains, the sound of rain hitting a tin roof, and the number four. When he got overwhelmed, everything had to be in fours. Four taps, four breaths, four steps. My father hated it. He thought Danny was just acting out, trying to draw attention away from our financial struggles. But I understood him. When our mother walked out on us, I became his world.”
“And your father?”
“He drank himself into a grave two years after Danny died,” I said bitterly. “He left behind a mountain of debt, an eviction notice, and a box of old photographs. None of which included a picture of Danny standing next to a mafia boss’s son in an alleyway three days ago.”
Dante was silent for a long moment. The SUV glided to a smooth halt beneath a grand stone portico. Instantly, the doors opened on both sides, and a team of medical and security personnel rushed forward. Dante held up a hand, motioning them back before carefully lifting Luca into his arms.
“Take him to his room,” Dante instructed a middle-aged woman in a discreet gray uniform who bowed respectfully. “Have Dr. Evans check his vitals and ensure he stays asleep.”
He turned back to me as I slid out of the vehicle, the cold night air biting through my thin waitress uniform.
“You’re coming with me,” Dante said, gesturing for me to follow him up the marble steps.
“I want to go home,” I protested, stopping at the threshold of the massive double doors.
Dante turned around, towering over me in the amber light of the entryway. “Your apartment was broken into forty-five minutes ago, Miss Vance. While we were still at the hotel.”
My breath hitched. “What?”
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“My security detail monitoring your neighborhood intercepted a team of unknown men entering your building through the fire escape,” Dante said smoothly, turning back inside. “They tore your apartment apart looking for something. If you go back tonight, you won’t find a home. You’ll find a trap.”
***
