That afternoon, Gabriel drove me to meet Detective Leah Mercer.
She worked with a state investigative task force and had no professional connection to Senator Hale.
Dante didn’t attend.
I had asked him not to.
For nearly two hours, I described Cameron’s behavior.
The isolation.
The threats disguised as concern.
The way he’d taken my phone during arguments and later insisted I’d misplaced it.
The time he’d told my employer I was having a breakdown.
Detective Mercer listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she said, “I believe you’re frightened. We can document the threats and discuss protective options. But I won’t promise an immediate arrest.”
I nodded.
“I don’t want a promise.”
“What do you want?”
I thought about it.
“I want my life back.”
She closed her notebook.
“Then we’ll start with what we can establish.”
***
When I returned to the estate, Dante was waiting in the garden.
He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the black roses tattooed along his forearms.
He was speaking with an elderly gardener about a damaged fountain.
I stopped.
Something about the scene was absurd.
Chicago’s most feared mafia boss discussing plumbing.
The gardener said something.
Dante frowned.
Then handed him a wrench.
I laughed.
Both men turned.
Dante raised an eyebrow.
“Something amusing?”
“You.”
“That happens rarely.”
“You’re arguing with a fountain.”
“It’s winning.”
I laughed harder.
He watched me with an expression that made my chest feel strange.
Not possessive.
Not hungry.
Almost relieved.
As though seeing me laugh had given him something he hadn’t known he needed.
***
Later, we walked beneath the rose-covered arches.
“Why does Gabriel trust you?” I asked.
Dante glanced at me.
“Because we’ve survived difficult things together.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No. It’s the beginning of one.”
He stopped beside a stone bench.
“Gabriel worked for my father. When my father died, several men tried to divide the organization. Gabriel stayed.”
“And you?”
“I made decisions I can’t undo.”
I studied him.
“Have you killed people?”
His expression didn’t change.
“Yes.”
The honesty frightened me more than a denial would have.
I stepped back.
Dante didn’t follow.
“I’m not asking you to admire my life, Nora.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because you should know who you’re standing beside.”
I looked at him.
“Do you regret it?”
“Some things. Others I regret not preventing.”
I swallowed.
“That’s not exactly comforting.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
For a long moment, we stood apart.
Then he said, “You don’t owe me affection because I helped you.”
I looked up sharply.
He continued.
“You’re safe here whether you like me or not.”
I wanted to believe that.
But believing had become dangerous.
***
That evening, Matteo brought news.
Victor Sloane had left Chicago.
His last public appearance was at a private airport.
But before leaving, he’d visited a nursing facility outside Milwaukee.
The registered visitor’s name was Evelyn Shaw.
My mother’s alias.
I stared at the document.
“She’s there?”
“Maybe,” Matteo said. “The record is several weeks old.”
I looked at Dante.
“Take me.”
He shook his head.
“Not tonight.”
Anger flashed through me.
“You said I could decide.”
“You can. I’m asking you to wait until we confirm the location and arrange a safe visit.”
I folded my arms.
“You’re very good at making orders sound like suggestions.”
He looked at me.
“And you’re very good at assuming every disagreement is a prison door.”
The words hurt.
His expression changed immediately.
“Nora.”
I turned away.
He didn’t touch me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was unfair.”
I stood still.
Nobody had ever apologized to me that quickly.
Not without adding a reason I was partly responsible.
I looked back.
“Don’t do it again.”
“I won’t.”
***
At midnight, I received an email.
No sender name.
No subject.
Just one photograph.
My mother standing beside a hospital bed.
A young man lay unconscious beneath white sheets.
He had dark hair and a familiar face.
Dante’s face.
Except younger.
Softer.
I knew before I read the caption.
Adrian Valenti.
Beneath the photograph were six words.
SHE DIDN’T SAVE HIM. SHE HID HIM.
I stared at the screen.
Then ran downstairs.
Dante was in his study.
He looked up when I entered.
“Nora?”
I turned the laptop toward him.
His expression changed.
For the first time, I saw genuine fear in Dante Valenti’s eyes.
He whispered one word.
“Adrian.”
Dante stared at the photograph for so long that I wondered whether he’d forgotten I was there.
Then he reached toward the screen.
His tattooed finger stopped just short of Adrian’s face.
“Where did you get this?”
“An anonymous email.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
He closed his eyes.
“Gabriel.”
The security chief appeared almost immediately.
Dante turned the laptop toward him.
Gabriel’s expression went pale.
“Jesus Christ.”
