Chapter 2 - The House on Lake Shore Drive
The private elevator lobby of the forty-second-floor penthouse was lined with polished black granite and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Under normal circumstances, two armed Moretti guards stood at the double doors twenty-four hours a day, while a third monitored the closed-circuit camera feed from the security desk in the basement garage.
Tonight, the lobby was empty.
Dante walked out into the cool, marble foyer. He didn't turn on the overhead lights. He didn't need them. He knew every inch of this penthouse—every hidden emergency hatch, every reinforced wall, every camera dead-zone. He had built this place four years ago when he took over the North Side operations, designing it as an impenetrable fortress for himself and the woman he intended to marry.
He stood near the elevator indicator display.
The digital numbers were dark. The primary power line to the elevator control box had been cut from the building’s basement sub-station, just as Evelyn Whitaker had boasted.
Dante reached into his pocket and pulled out his secondary encrypted comm-link—a military-grade frequency that bypassed the building's internal repeater system. He pressed the earpiece into his left ear and clicked the transmitter twice.
"Marcus," Dante said quietly.
Static hissed through the receiver for three agonized seconds before a rough, breathless voice cut through the line.
"Boss... do not... come down..."
Dante’s eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits. "Marcus. Report."
"Garage is compromised..." Marcus gasped, the sound of heavy rain and wet footsteps echoing behind his voice. "Whitaker’s men... they took out the night team at the gate... I’m in the south stairwell... two shots to the shoulder... Boss, they have... they have Cole’s heavy team with them... at least eight men..."
"How many on the stairs?" Dante asked, his voice entirely devoid of panic.
"Four... moving up past the thirty-fifth floor now... they’re using the service bypass key Whitaker gave them... Cameras are blind..."
"Understood," Dante said calmly. "Apply a pressure dressing to your shoulder and stay in the stairwell alcove. Do not engage until I open the top doors."
"Boss, you’re alone up there—"
"I’m not alone," Dante said softly, his eyes flicking toward the dark hallway leading back to the sunroom. "I have everything I need."
He ended the transmission.
Dante walked back toward the master suite.
For three years, the master suite had been split in two. The west wing—containing the primary bedroom, the private office, and the balcony—belonged to him. The east wing—a sun-drenched suite of rooms overlooking the lake—belonged to Elena.
He had never entered her suite without knocking. He had never opened her drawers, checked her phone, or intruded upon her privacy. He had treated her like a guest in his home, terrified that one wrong step would make her pack her bags and run back to her father's estate in Lake Forest.
Now, he walked straight into the east wing.
The room smelled of jasmine, fresh linen, and the faint, sweet scent of the tea she drank every evening before bed. It was neat, sparse, almost clinical in its organization—the room of a woman who had spent three years living with her bags mentally packed.
On the vanity table sat a small, leather-bound notebook.
Dante stopped.
He set his gun on the mahogany surface and opened the notebook.
The pages were filled with Elena’s neat, slanted handwriting. Dates. Names. Times.
October 12: Father called the house at 3:00 p.m. He asked if Dante would be attending the shipment clearance at Dock 4. I told him Dante was in New York. (Dante is actually at Dock 4. God, please let him be careful).
January 14: Raymond Cole sent flowers to the house for my birthday. Card contained a hidden note asking for the security code to the penthouse garage. I burned the note in the fireplace. I told Dante the flowers were from a college friend.
May 22: Dante came home with blood on his shirt tonight. He looked at me like he was ashamed. He stayed in his office until 4:00 a.m. I sat outside his door in the hallway until he fell asleep. I wanted to touch his hair so badly my hands shook.
Dante stared at the page.
The ink on the May 22nd entry was slightly smudged near the margin, as if a single drop of water had fallen onto the paper while she was writing.
May 22nd.
He remembered that night with brutal, terrifying clarity. His cousin Lorenzo had tried to sell out the East Chicago trucking routes to the Moretti family’s rivals. Dante had dealt with Lorenzo in a rain-drenched alley behind the riverfront warehouses, coming home at 2:00 a.m. covered in blood, feeling like a monster.
He had walked past her closed door that night, hating himself, believing she was inside sleeping peacefully, disgusted by the life he lived.
She had been sitting on the cold floorboards on the other side of the wood, holding her breath, wanting to touch his hair.
Dante closed the notebook gently and placed it inside his jacket pocket, right next to his heart.
He picked up his gun.
The cold, hollow emptiness that had lived inside his chest for three years was gone, replaced by a sudden, violent heat that burned through his veins like high-octane fuel.
His father-in-law, Arthur Whitaker, had thought he was using his daughter to trap a wolf.
He didn't realize that the wolf had spent three years letting himself be starved because he thought his bride didn't like the smell of blood.
May you like
Dante walked out of the bedroom, pulled the heavy oak service door open near the kitchen, and stepped out onto the service landing overlooking the north stairwell.
Below him, echoing through the concrete shaft, came the faint, rhythmic sound of heavy boots climbing the stairs.
