Chapter 3 - The Empty Safe
Dante crossed the threshold first.
Nobody had entered Elena’s bedroom in nearly three years.
Not even him.
Especially not him.
Clara understood why the moment she stepped inside.
The room had been preserved.
A silk robe hung behind the bathroom door.
Perfume bottles remained arranged on the vanity.
A novel lay facedown beside the bed as though its owner might return and finish the page.
Grief had turned the bedroom into a museum.
Sophia stood in the center of it.
In her hands was the photograph.
Dante crouched.
“Sweetheart.”
Sophia backed away.
He stopped.
Clara moved slowly toward her instead.
“Can I see?”
Sophia looked at the picture.
Then handed it over.
It had been taken at a family dinner.
Dante sat at the center.
Elena beside him.
Sophia, much younger, sat on Elena’s lap.
Julian stood behind them.
But someone had taken a pen and circled Julian’s right hand.
Clara brought the photo closer.
He was wearing a ring.
Heavy silver.
A black stone set into it.
There was a narrow diagonal scratch across the stone.
Clara looked at Dante.
“Did Julian always wear this?”
Dante took the photograph.
“For years.”
“Does he still?”
“No.”
“When did he stop?”
Dante did not answer immediately.
Then his face changed.
“After Elena died.”
Sophia made a small sound.
Both adults turned.
She pointed toward the open safe.
Dante approached it.
The safe was hidden behind a painting.
The steel door stood wide open.
There was no sign of forced entry.
“What was inside?” Clara asked.
Dante stared into the emptiness.
“I don’t know.”
“It was your wife’s safe.”
“It was Elena’s. I respected that.”
Clara raised an eyebrow.
“A mafia boss who respects privacy?”
Dante looked at her.
“Sometimes.”
Under different circumstances Clara might have smiled.
She did not.
Sophia walked toward the safe.
Then she reached into the back corner.
Her small fingers emerged holding a strip of red fabric.
Dante took it.
“What is that?”
Clara touched the edge.
“Looks like part of a ribbon.”
Sophia shook her head.
She pointed toward Elena’s vanity.
Clara followed.
Several boxes sat there.
Jewelry.
Letters.
Hair accessories.
Sophia opened the bottom drawer and pulled out an old birthday card.
A red satin ribbon had once been tied around it.
One end was torn.
Same fabric.
Clara brought the pieces together.
They matched.
Something had been tied with that ribbon.
Whatever it was had been kept in the safe.
“Do you know what was wrapped in it?” Clara asked.
Sophia stared at Dante.
Then she turned toward the wall.
Her silence returned like a locked door.
Dante rubbed one hand over his jaw.
“Someone opened this safe.”
“Recently?”
“No dust on the keypad.”
Clara leaned closer.
He was right.
The rest of the room carried a thin untouched layer.
Not the buttons.
Someone had used them.
Dante pulled out his phone.
“Luca.”
He listened.
His expression darkened.
“What do you mean he’s gone?”
Clara knew immediately.
Julian.
Dante stepped toward the window.
“You had two men with him.”
Pause.
“Find them.”
Another pause.
“No. Lock down the garage. Airport. Train stations. Every property.”
He hung up.
“Julian escaped?”
“He walked out.”
“How?”
“My men don’t remember letting him.”
Clara frowned.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No.”
Dante looked toward the hall.
“It means somebody who works for me helped him.”
Sophia grabbed Clara’s sleeve.
Clara bent down.
“What is it?”
Sophia pointed at the photograph again.
Then at Julian’s ring.
She touched her own cheek.
Clara waited.
Sophia repeated the motion.
Ring.
Cheek.
Ring.
Cheek.
Then she covered her ears.
Dante’s breathing changed.
“What did she see?”
Clara held up a hand.
“Give her a second.”
Sophia squeezed her eyes closed.
Her lips moved.
No sound came out.
Clara knelt in front of her.
“You don’t have to say it.”
Sophia opened her eyes.
Clara pointed to the photograph.
“You can show me.”
Sophia took the picture.
She tapped Elena.
Then Julian.
Then she raised her hand and slapped the air.
Once.
Dante’s face became stone.
“Julian hit Elena?”
Sophia recoiled.
Clara shot him a warning look.
Too fast.
Too much.
Dante stepped backward.
“Sorry.”
Sophia stared at the floor.
Then slowly nodded.
Dante closed his eyes.
When he reopened them, something inside him had changed.
Not rage.
Something colder.
Certainty beginning to form.
Clara spoke carefully.
“Was it the night your mother died?”
Sophia looked at her.
A nod.
“Did you see them arguing?”
Another nod.
“Were you in the room?”
Sophia shook her head.
“Car?”
No.
“Hallway?”
No.
Sophia became frustrated.
She rushed to Elena’s desk, grabbed a pencil, and pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer.
She drew a rectangle.
Four wheels.
A car.
Then another rectangle beside it.
A building.
She drew a line between them.
Dante looked over Clara’s shoulder.
“The gala garage.”
Sophia pointed hard at him.
Yes.
Then she drew three figures.
Elena.
Julian.
Sophia.
She drew herself hiding behind something.
A pillar.
Dante’s voice broke slightly.
“You were there.”
Sophia’s pencil stopped.
Then she drew a fourth figure.
Clara felt her stomach tighten.
“Who’s that?”
Sophia drew hair.
Short.
A square body.
Something long in one hand.
A gun.
Dante’s jaw clenched.
“Was that the shooter?”
Sophia stared at the page.
Then she did something unexpected.
She drew an X over the gunman.
And pointed at Julian.
Clara understood first.
“The shooter wasn’t the one in control.”
Dante’s face went still.
Sophia tapped Julian again.
Then tapped the gunman.
Julian.
Gunman.
Julian.
Gunman.
An order.
Dante whispered, “He hired him.”
Sophia began trembling.
Clara took the pencil away.
“That’s enough.”
Dante walked toward the window.
His hands were shaking.
Clara had never imagined his hands could shake.
“My wife called me that night.”
He spoke without turning.
“At eleven fourteen.”
Clara listened.
“I didn’t answer.”
His voice flattened.
“I was in a meeting.”
Sophia looked at him.
“She left a message.”
Dante swallowed.
“I deleted it two years ago because I couldn’t keep listening.”
“What did she say?” Clara asked.
“Nothing useful. She said she needed to tell me something. She sounded afraid.”
He looked toward the drawing.
“Six minutes before Sophia wrote eleven seventeen.”
Clara’s chest tightened.
“What happened at eleven seventeen?”
Sophia suddenly walked to the bedside table.
She opened the bottom drawer.
Nothing.
Then she reached underneath it.
Her fingers searched along the wood.
A faint ripping sound.
Velcro.
She pulled out a tiny digital recorder.
Dante stared.
“Elena’s.”
Sophia handed it to Clara.
The battery was dead.
Dante took it.
“I’ll have someone restore it.”
“Someone you trust?”
His eyes met hers.
That question mattered now.
He nodded once.
“One person.”
Downstairs, a door slammed.
Heavy footsteps followed.
Luca appeared in the hallway.
His forehead was bleeding.
Dante moved toward him.
“What happened?”
“Julian had help.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
Luca handed Dante a phone.
“Found this in the restaurant alley.”
Julian’s phone.
The one Luca had confiscated.
The screen was cracked.
“But there’s something else.”
Luca looked at Sophia.
Then at Clara.
Dante understood.
“Say it.”
“We found your two men.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then talk.”
“They were drugged.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed.
“By who?”
“We checked the security cameras.”
Luca unlocked the phone.
A video appeared.
The hallway outside the restaurant’s private room.
Julian waiting.
One of Dante’s men standing nearby.
Then someone entered frame carrying two cups of coffee.
Marco.
The restaurant manager.
Clara stared.
“No.”
The video continued.
Marco handed the men the drinks.
Minutes later both guards collapsed.
Julian walked away.
Dante’s expression became unreadable.
“Where is Marco now?”
Luca swallowed.
“We can’t find him.”
Sophia suddenly made a sound.
A sharp frightened breath.
She pointed toward Clara.
More precisely, toward Clara’s apron pocket.
Her phone vibrated.
Clara pulled it out.
A photograph had arrived from an unknown number.
Marco was sitting in a chair.
His hands were tied.
His face was bruised.
Behind him stood Julian.
The message beneath the photo contained five words.
BRING CLARA OR MARCO DIES.
Then a second message appeared.
May you like
And this one was addressed to Sophia.
TELL YOUR FATHER WHAT YOUR MOTHER HID.
