Chapter 4 - The Safehouse
The SUV turned down a quiet, tree-lined street in an affluent corner of Upper Manhattan, pulling through wrought-iron gates that opened automatically. It stopped in front of a heavily fortified brownstone that looked like an upscale fortress disguised as a historic home. Security cameras pivoted silently in our direction as we stepped out.
“Where are we?” I asked, hugging my coat tighter around myself against the autumn chill.
“Somewhere safe,” Dante replied, leading the way up the stone steps. “At least for now. If the man outside the restaurant recognized you, it means the people who hunted your mother thirty years ago have realized she left a replacement behind.”
Orion bounded up the steps beside me, his tail giving a few tentative wags whenever I looked down at him. The sheer absurdity of the situation pressed down on my chest. Less than twenty-four hours ago, my biggest problem was scraping together enough cash for my electric bill. Now I was standing on the porch of a notorious crime lord, hiding from unknown assassins because my mother apparently wasn't who I thought she was.
A tall man in a sharp suit opened the front door, bowing slightly to Dante before casting a curious, wary glance in my direction.
“Boss. The perimeter is clean. No tail.”
“Good, Leo. Get us coffee. Black. And bring the archive box from the basement vault.”
“Right away.”
We stepped into an entryway floored in dark polished hardwood and accented with expensive modern art. It looked less like a mafia hideout and more like a minimalist art gallery, clean and cold.
Dante gestured toward a sprawling leather sofa in front of a roaring fireplace. “Sit.”
I didn’t sit. I crossed my arms and glared at him. “I’m not a prisoner, Mr. Moretti. Stop giving me orders.”
Dante stopped halfway across the room, turning back to face me. A flicker of something resembling amusement touched his gray eyes, though it vanished instantly. “You’re alive, Olivia. In this city, that makes you a temporary guest. Sit down before you pass out from shock.”
He wasn’t wrong. My legs were trembling so badly I could barely feel my feet. I walked over to the sofa and sank into the cushions. Orion immediately curled up beside me, resting his chin on my shoes, pinning me comfortably in place.
Leo returned a moment later carrying a silver tray with two steaming cups of coffee and a thick, dust-covered cardboard box marked with faded black ink. He placed it on the glass coffee table and left without a word.
Dante sat in an armchair opposite the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He reached into the box and pulled out a yellowed manila folder.
“Your father—the man you knew as Arthur Marshall—left a safety deposit box at a bank in downtown Manhattan,” Dante said, sliding the folder across the table. “It was registered under an emergency protocol that triggered yesterday upon his death.”
I froze, my coffee cup halfway to my mouth. “My... what?”
Dante’s eyes softened, just a fraction. “Arthur Marshall died yesterday morning, Olivia. Heart attack in his sleep. That’s why you were working two double shifts—to pay for a funeral you didn’t even know you were hosting.”
The cup slipped from my fingers, shattering against the glass table, hot dark liquid spilling across the surface. I didn’t care about the mess. I didn’t care about the coffee.
“Dead?” I whispered, the word tearing its way out of my throat. “No. No, I talked to him three days ago. He sounded fine. He told me to eat vegetables—”
“He knew they were coming,” Dante interrupted gently. “He knew his heart was failing, and he knew the protection was collapsing. That’s why he left you the box.”
Dante pushed the open folder toward me. Inside was a single key attached to a tag with a bank name, a birth certificate bearing the name *Olivia Vance*, and a handwritten letter addressed in my father’s familiar, looping handwriting.
*“If you’re reading this, my sweet girl,”* the letter began, *“the past has finally caught up with us. Everything I told you was a lie to keep you safe. But you are Evelyn’s daughter. And you are stronger than you know.”*
Tears spilled over my lashes, hot and fast, tracking down my cheeks. I choked out a sob, burying my face in my hands.
A warm, heavy weight pressed against my side. Orion shifted closer, letting out a low, rumbling whine of comfort, licking the salt tears from my fingers.
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Dante sat silently across from me, watching my grief with a heavy, unreadable expression. For the first time, he didn't look like a monster or a kingpin. He looked like a man carrying the weight of a thirty-year-old war.
“We’re going to the bank tonight,” Dante said softly. “And then, we’re going to find out who killed your mother.”
