Chapter 3 - THE RED INK NOTE
The silence in the dining room grew so deep you could hear the distant hum of the kitchen refrigerators down the hall.
Dante stared at the red ink note, his thumb tracing the jagged edge of the handwriting. The tattoos along his forearm tightened as his fist curled into a hard, white-knuckled ball.
"Uncle Vincent," Dante said, his voice dangerously low. "He’s been dead to this city for a decade. The federal indictment in 2018 stripped him of every asset he held in Illinois. How did he buy a commercial block on the South Side?"
Marco stepped forward, peering over the ledger pages. "Boss, look at the routing numbers on these wire transfers. They didn't come from domestic accounts. They were funneled through a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands under Celeste’s maiden name."
I felt the room tilt slightly. "Celeste wasn't just marrying you for your name, Dante," I said, the realization dawning with sickening clarity. "She was part of a long game. Her family didn't lose their fortune in the market three years ago. They were bankrolled by Vincent Russo the entire time."
Dorothy clutched her handbag tighter against her chest, her knuckles white. "That’s why she hated my diner so much. Every time she drove past Millie's on her way to your penthouse, she looked at it like it was a stain on her family's future empire."
Dante didn't hesitate. He snapped the ledger shut and tossed it onto the dining table, right beside the diamond engagement ring he had stripped from Celeste’s finger twenty minutes ago.
"Marco," Dante ordered sharply. "Get the SUVs ready. We're going to the diner."
"Boss, it's past midnight," Marco warned, though he was already unholstering his radio. "If Vincent has people stationed around that block—"
"I don't care if the entire syndicate is waiting in the kitchen," Dante interrupted, his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying focus. "That woman fed me when I had holes in my sneakers. She kept my father's secrets when the world was tearing him apart. Nobody touches Millie's Diner."
He turned to me, his dark gaze softening just a fraction. "Grace. Stay here with Aunt Dot. Lock the front gates. If I'm not back by sunrise—"
"I'm not staying behind, Mr. Russo," I said, my voice cutting him off before he could finish.
Dante stared at me, surprised by the sudden defiance in my tone.
"Grace, it's dangerous," he said.
"I've worked in your house for two years, Dante," I said, dropping the formal title for the first time. "I've cleaned up after your enemies, I've watched your back when your own security team missed breaches in the east wing, and I know where Aunt Dot keeps the spare sugar canisters. You need someone who can get inside that kitchen without kicking the front door down."
Dorothy reached out and patted my hand. "Let her come with you, sweetheart. She’s got more backbone than half your lieutenants anyway."
Dante looked at me for a long, intense second. Then a slow, grim shadow of a smile touched the corner of his mouth.
May you like
"Fine," he muttered, grabbing his heavy wool coat from the back of the chair. "Just stay behind me when we hit the alley."
Ten minutes later, three black SUVs tore through the empty streets of Chicago's South Side, their headlights cutting through the damp autumn fog like scalpels.
