Chapter 7 - The Lie Dante Had Believed for Nine Years
Sal Genovese was alive.
Barely conscious, dehydrated, bruised, but alive.
His daughter was not there.
That was the first thing he asked when he woke.
“Is Mia safe?”
Dante stood near the hospital bed.
“Not yet.”
Sal closed his eyes.
A tear slipped down his face.
“I’m sorry.”
Dante did not answer immediately.
I stood near the doorway with Marco.
Sal looked older than he had two days earlier.
Fear had aged him.
“They took her six weeks ago,” he whispered.
“Who?” Dante asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Anthony?”
Sal shook his head.
“Anthony arranged the money.”
My pulse quickened.
“What money?”
“The three million.”
Dante’s face remained cold.
“You moved it.”
“I had to.”
“You could have come to me.”
“They said if I did, they’d send me pieces of Mia.”
I looked away.
Dante didn’t.
Sal continued.
“I tried to hide the transfer.”
“Poorly,” I said.
His eyes moved to me.
Even now, he looked embarrassed.
“I know.”
“Twelve minutes.”
“I know.”
“Emily,” Dante warned.
“What? Accuracy matters.”
Sal gave a broken laugh.
It was the first sign of humanity in the room.
Then Dante asked, “Why meet Vincent?”
Sal’s eyes filled.
“He knew.”
“What?”
“About Mia.”
“And?”
“He was helping me trace them.”
“So Vincent didn’t betray me.”
“No.”
Dante looked down.
Another loyal man dead because Dante had believed the wrong story for a few hours.
He carried responsibility too quickly.
I could see it.
“Who killed Vincent?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he mention Dr. Voss?”
Sal’s expression changed.
There.
Recognition.
“Who told you that name?”
“It was written where we found you.”
He began breathing faster.
Dante leaned forward.
“Who is Voss?”
Sal shook his head.
“Sal.”
“He’s the reason nobody can trust their own memories.”
My skin went cold.
“What does that mean?”
Sal looked at me.
“Your brother.”
I stepped closer.
“What about him?”
“Voss worked with Anthony years ago.”
“As a doctor?”
“Psychiatrist. Behavioral specialist. Expensive. Private.”
“What did he do to Noah?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know something.”
Sal looked toward Dante.
“Tell her.”
Sal swallowed.
“After Clara died, Anthony panicked because he knew there had been a photographer.”
“Noah.”
“Yes.”
“He wanted to know what Noah had seen.”
My chest tightened.
“So they interrogated him.”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“Voss was supposed to make him unreliable.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Unreliable?”
“A witness nobody would believe.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Emily—”
“No.”
Sal lowered his eyes.
“They used drugs. Sleep deprivation. Suggestion. Psychological pressure.”
I stopped hearing the room.
Eight years.
Noah crying in hospital corridors.
Noah begging me to believe that someone had been following him.
Doctors telling me paranoia was part of his illness.
Me telling Noah he was safe.
Telling him the things he remembered weren’t real.
I had helped them.
Not knowingly.
But I had.
I turned away.
Dante touched my shoulder.
I shook him off.
“Don’t.”
He stepped back.
Sal continued quietly.
“They wanted whatever photographs he took.”
“He hid them.”
“Yes.”
“And Clara’s files.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t they kill him?”
“Anthony said Clara had already caused too much attention. Another death connected to the same circle would be dangerous.”
“So destroying him was safer.”
Sal did not answer.
I left the room.
Dante followed me into the corridor.
“Emily.”
“I said don’t.”
He stopped.
I leaned against the wall.
My hands shook.
“I didn’t believe him.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“He told me.”
“You were twenty-three.”
“He told me people were coming into his apartment. He told me doctors were hurting him.”
“You trusted medical professionals.”
“I told him he was sick.”
I pressed both hands over my face.
“God.”
Dante moved closer but did not touch me.
Not yet.
“He needs you now.”
“I failed him then.”
“You kept him alive.”
I looked up.
“You paid eight thousand dollars every month.”
“That doesn’t erase—”
“You visited him.”
“Of course.”
“Every week.”
I stared.
“How do you know?”
“I know your schedule.”
Something in me cracked.
He continued.
“You found specialists. You took second jobs before you came to work for me. You sold your parents’ house. You used your retirement account.”
“Stop.”
“You did everything you knew how to do.”
Tears blurred my vision.
“I should have believed him.”
Dante’s voice softened.
“So should I.”
“What?”
“Clara.”
He looked away.
“She tried to tell me Anthony was changing.”
My heart tightened.
“Before the recording?”
“Yes.”
“She asked questions. About accounts. About Vincent. About my uncle.”
“And?”
“I told her not to worry about business.”
I saw the guilt.
“I thought I was protecting her.”
“You didn’t know.”
“Neither did you.”
We stood there.
Two people carrying the same impossible guilt.
Believing we should have understood truths nobody had given us enough pieces to see.
Dante finally reached for me.
Slowly.
Giving me time to move away.
I didn’t.
He pulled me against his chest.
I had been hugged by friends.
Family.
Men I dated.
None of them felt like that.
Dante held me as though he understood exactly how much pressure it took to keep a person from falling apart.
No more.
No less.
My cheek rested against his shirt.
His heartbeat was steady.
For one dangerous minute, I forgot he was Dante Marino.
He was simply a man who had also lost years to lies.
I pulled back first.
“Dr. Voss.”
“Yes.”
“We find him.”
“We will.”
“No killing him before Noah gets answers.”
A pause.
“Dante.”
“Fine.”
“Say it.”
“I will not kill Dr. Voss before we get answers.”
“Good.”
“After?”
“We’ll discuss.”
He almost smiled.
Then Marco appeared.
“Sal remembered something.”
We returned.
Sal looked exhausted.
“They moved Mia every few days.”
“How did you communicate?” I asked.
“Burner phones.”
“Any voices?”
“One man.”
“Accent?”
“German maybe. Or Austrian.”
“Voss?”
“I never heard Voss speak.”
Dante sat beside the bed.
“What else?”
Sal closed his eyes.
“Vincent found a property tax record.”
“For?”
“A psychiatric clinic in Wisconsin.”
My heart stopped.
“What clinic?”
“Closed facility. Owned through shell companies.”
“Name?”
“North Lake Behavioral Center.”
Dante looked at me.
I was already searching.
The place had closed twelve years earlier after licensing disputes.
Remote.
Near the Wisconsin border.
Two hours from Chicago.
“Voss worked there?”
“Vincent thought so.”
“What about Mia?”
“He believed she might be there.”
Dante stood.
Sal grabbed his sleeve.
“Bring her home.”
For the first time, Dante’s expression softened toward him.
“I will.”
We prepared to leave before dawn.
Then Dante received a call.
Anthony.
He answered on speaker.
“Dante.”
His uncle sounded calm.
Almost paternal.
“Anthony.”
“I hear you’ve been busy.”
“I hear you murdered my wife.”
Silence.
Then Anthony sighed.
“You found Clara’s little archive.”
Dante’s face changed.
Confirmation.
Not proof.
But confirmation.
“You admit it?”
“No.”
“You knew.”
“I knew she was asking questions.”
“Did you order the bomb?”
“I’m telling you this once. I did not kill Clara.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because I loved her.”
Dante laughed bitterly.
“So did I.”
“And that is why you’re not thinking.”
“Careful.”
Anthony’s voice hardened.
“You believe I controlled everything. I didn’t.”
“The Architect.”
A pause.
So brief most people would miss it.
We didn’t.
Anthony knew the name.
“Who is he?” Dante demanded.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
“No.”
“You have one chance.”
Anthony laughed quietly.
“You still think you are the most dangerous man in Chicago.”
Dante’s expression became ice.
“Where is Mia?”
“Safe, for now.”
“Bring her back.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t.”
For the first time, Anthony sounded afraid.
That terrified me more than anything.
“Voss has her,” I said.
Silence.
Anthony recognized my voice.
“Emily Carter.”
Dante’s eyes darkened.
“How do you know her?”
“Everyone knows her now.”
I hated that sentence.
Anthony continued.
“You should take your brother and leave Chicago.”
“No.”
“You have no idea what you are standing inside.”
“Then explain it.”
“You think Voss broke Noah because of a photograph.”
“He did.”
“No.”
My pulse jumped.
“Then why?”
“Because Noah saw something that should not have existed.”
Dante said, “The Architect.”
“No.”
Anthony inhaled.
“The Architect is not a man.”
Silence.
“What?” I whispered.
“It’s a council.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“Names.”
“I don’t know all of them.”
“Who do you know?”
Anthony paused.
Then spoke.
“Judge Malcolm Reed. Commissioner Ellis Grant. Dr. Sebastian Voss. Senator Paul Whitaker.”
Every name was powerful.
Respectable.
Untouchable.
“And you?” Dante asked.
Another silence.
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
Anthony continued quickly.
“But Clara discovered I was trying to leave.”
Dante stared at the phone.
“What?”
“She thought I was part of it because I was.”
Anthony’s voice broke slightly.
“But I had begun feeding information to Carlo Bellini.”
Dante looked at me.
Carlo.
The informant.
“Why?”
“Because they were moving beyond money.”
“Into what?”
“People.”
The room went cold.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Influence. Blackmail. Psychological leverage. Judges compromised. Candidates controlled. Witnesses made unreliable.”
Like Noah.
Dante’s voice lowered.
“And Clara?”
“She found them.”
“Did you warn her?”
“I tried.”
“Did you kill her?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Anthony whispered one name.
“Voss.”
My hands curled.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect us to believe that?”
Anthony suddenly sounded desperate.
“Dante, listen to me. Do not go to North Lake.”
We all froze.
“How did you know?”
“They’re expecting you.”
“Then they’ll see me.”
“No!”
The first genuine fear in Anthony’s voice.
“Dante, please.”
Too late.
Dante ended the call.
We left thirty minutes later.
North Lake Behavioral Center stood deep among trees near the Wisconsin border.
Abandoned buildings.
Broken windows.
Rusting fences.
No lights.
At least from the road.
We entered through a service building.
Inside, electricity hummed.
Someone was using the place.
We found rooms.
Medical equipment.
Files.
Photographs.
Then a basement corridor.
At the far end, one door was lit.
Dante opened it.
A teenage girl sat inside.
Sal’s daughter.
Mia.
Alive.
She looked up.
“Mr. Marino?”
Dante lowered his weapon.
“You’re safe.”
Then a speaker crackled overhead.
A man’s voice.
Smooth.
Educated.
European.
“Safe?”
Dante turned.
Cameras stared from the corners.
The voice continued.
“An interesting promise from a man who has brought danger to everyone he loves.”
My blood went cold.
Voss.
He was watching.
Then he said my name.
“Emily Carter.”
I looked toward the camera.
“I’ve waited eight years to meet you.”
May you like
And somewhere deeper inside the facility, a lock released.
---
