Chapter 4 - THE LEATHER JOURNAL
I didn't take the champagne flute. I swiped my hand across the marble counter, sending the crystal glass shattering onto the tiled floor.
Isabella flinched, stepping back to protect her dress from the splashing alcohol and shards of glass. Without another word, I turned and walked out of the powder room. My blood roared in my ears, drowning out the string quartet playing in the ballroom.
I found Dante speaking with two men in tuxedoes. I walked right through them, grabbed Dante’s arm, and said, “We’re leaving. Now.”
He saw the look on my face and didn't argue. He nodded to Marco, and within two minutes, we were in the back of the armored Mercedes, speeding away from the hotel.
“What did she say to you?” Dante asked, the privacy partition sliding up to separate us from the driver.
“Who killed my mother, Dante?”
The silence in the car was absolute. The streetlights outside flashed over Dante’s face, illuminating the sudden, profound stillness in his features. He didn't look shocked. He looked like a man who had been waiting for an executioner's axe to fall.
“My father,” Dante said softly.
The confirmation felt like a blade twisting in my stomach. “You knew. You knew this whole time. You brought me into your home, put this ring on my finger, and you knew your family destroyed mine!”
“I learned the truth a week before you delivered that food to my table,” Dante said, his voice strained. “My father died twenty years ago. The police report said he died of a heart attack in his sleep. But I found his old records. He was driving the Cadillac that struck your mother’s car. He was drunk. He fled the scene.”
“And you kept this from me?” I yelled, tears finally spilling over. “You used me to cover up your family’s guilt!”
“I used the engagement to keep you alive!” Dante roared back, his composure finally snapping. “Isabella found out about the crash. She told the Volkovs. If they knew my family owed a blood debt to a beat cop’s daughter, they would have used you as leverage to destroy me. I had to pull you in close to protect you!”
I turned my face toward the window, weeping silently. Every piece of my life had been manipulated by the men in this city.
When we arrived back at the estate, I didn't wait for Dante to open my door. I ran inside and locked myself in my bedroom. But sleep was impossible. The mansion felt like a tomb of secrets, and I realized I couldn't trust Dante’s words. I needed proof.
At 3:00 a.m., I slipped out of my room. The guards were stationed at the perimeter; the inner hallways were clear. I crept downstairs to Dante’s restricted study.
The heavy oak desk was locked. But my father had taught me how to slip a basic tumbler when I was a teenager locking myself out of our cheap apartment. I pulled a hairpin from my updo, bent it, and worked the lock. With a soft click, the drawer slid open.
Inside sat a worn, black leather journal.
I opened it. It was filled with Dante’s handwriting, logging debts, favors, and family secrets. I flipped toward the back, scanning for my father's name. I found an entry dated ten years ago.
Officer Daniel Chen covered up the Cadillac evidence to stop a gang war. In exchange, my father owed him a life. But Chen never collected. I must find the daughter. I owe her.
It wasn't Dante’s father who owed the debt. It was Dante carrying it.
Before I could process the words, a cold draft hit the back of my neck.
“You inherited your father’s curiosity, Miss Chen,” a heavily accented voice said.
May you like
I spun around, dropping the journal.
Standing in the doorway of the impregnable Moretti estate, bypassing fifty armed guards, was Alexei Volkov. And he was pointing a silenced pistol directly at my chest.
