Chapter 4 What he knows

I kept hearing his voice.

Not Dante's.

Leo's.

"Did your father ever work in this city?"

It was such a strange thing to ask. Random. Like the words slipped out before he could pull them back. But the way he said it-the pause, the flicker in his eyes-told me one thing:

He knew something.

Something I didn't.

Something I wasn't supposed to know.

And now... I couldn't stop thinking about it.

What did he mean?

What did he know that I didn't?

And why the hell was I in the middle of any of this?

I'd barely started this job-literally. It hadn't even been 48 hours. And yet somehow, I was already drowning in questions I couldn't ask. Not to Mom. Not to Dante. And definitely not to Leo-not again.

If I asked Mom, she'd lie.

Or worse-she'd get that tight, hollow look in her eyes. The one that told me she was holding back more than words. I'd seen it before. And I hated it.

If I asked Dante?

Yeah... I'd probably be dead. Or at least fired.

So that left me with one option:

Find out myself.

Even if it meant snooping. Even if it meant risking the job.

Even if every cell in my body was screaming bad idea, Elena.

But that photo. That question. That look Leo gave me.

The way Dante could silence a room with a stare-it all pointed to one thing.

There was a story here.

And I needed to know what it was.

Dante Moretti didn't like mornings.

Too quiet.

Too empty.

Mornings made him think too much.

About things he'd buried.

Things he didn't have time to remember.

Things that clawed their way up when the city hadn't woken yet.

That's why he always got up before the sun.

He worked in the dark. While everyone else was still asleep.

No suits when he wasn't in meetings. No ties. No cuffs.

Just clean white shirts. Open at the collar. Simple.

His house was the same.

Clean. Sharp. Cold.

Everything in place. Nothing out of order.

Too clean for a man who ran one of the most violent mafia empires on the East Coast.

But that's exactly how he liked it.

Controlled. Predictable. Silent.

He sat at his desk with two phones in front of him.

One regular. One encrypted.

One for his surface-level business.

The other for... everything else.

He never mixed them up.

Both phones lit up.

The regular one had the usual-emails, contracts, offshore updates.

The encrypted one had three missed calls and a message:

"They're getting bold. Meeting needed."

He didn't flinch. Just lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and stared at nothing.

This was the real mafia life.

No movie car chases. No dramatic gunfights in alleys.

The real power was in the silence.

In making people fear your stillness more than your wrath.

In knowing the real enemies weren't the ones pointing guns-they were the ones sitting across your dinner table.

And trust?

Didn't exist.

Not with friends.

Not with family.

Not even with your wife.

He hadn't said her name in years.

Isabella.

She used to dance barefoot in the kitchen, wrapped in his shirt, wine glass in hand, laughing like the world couldn't touch her. She hated olives-said they looked like tiny eyes. Loved rainy mornings. And red lipstick.

She was the first softness he ever allowed into his world.

She gave him Luca.

And then she betrayed him.

It wasn't the affair that shattered him-it was the plan.

She didn't just cheat.

She tried to run.

She was going to take Luca.

Board a private plane. Disappear with her Pilates instructor lover and start over somewhere far, warm, and untouchable.

He would've forgiven the betrayal. Maybe.

But not the attempt to steal his son.

So, he did what monsters do.

He shot them both.

First him. Then her.

The media never found out.

No one in his circle dared speak of it again.

After that night, the last part of him that believed in love... turned to ash.

Now there was only Luca.

And business.

And blood.

Meanwhile, in the east wing of the mansion, I was wrestling with a five-year-old and a laptop.

"Luca," I said gently, "just one hour, okay? Sit through your lesson, then we can make the moon out of paper plates like you wanted."

He groaned. "Mr. Powell talks like a turtle."

I laughed. "And you talk like a race car."

He pouted, but sat down. Dramatically, of course.

I stood behind him, pretending to be engaged in the lesson. But my eyes kept drifting to the hallway.

That hallway.

The one with the shelf.

The one with the photo.

I hadn't stopped thinking about it. I needed to see it again. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it wasn't my dad after all. Maybe it was just some guy with a familiar face. Right?

But deep down, I already knew.

I took a quiet breath and stepped away.

Just five minutes.

I walked slowly. Soft steps. No sound.

Turned the corner. Heart pounding.

My hands were already clammy.

I reached the shelf.

Gone.

The photo was gone.

Dust remained. The imprint of where the frame had been was still there-but the photo? Missing.

I stared in disbelief. My chest sank.

Someone moved it.

Someone knew I saw it.

Had they checked the cameras?

Were they watching me now?

I turned quickly, panic rising.

And nearly jumped out of my skin.

Leo.

Standing there. Watching me.

Expression unreadable. No smirk. No jokes. Just... blank.

"You're not supposed to be here," he said.

His voice wasn't angry.

It was quiet. Almost... disappointed.

And I knew, in that exact second, he knew everything.