Chapter 9 - The Enemy Inside the Forty-Second Floor
Finding Clara became Dante’s only priority.
That frightened me.
Not because I didn’t understand.
Because I did.
A desperate man searches recklessly.
A desperate powerful man can burn cities.
We traced the call.
Burner phone.
Tower hit near Milwaukee.
Then gone.
Marco assembled teams.
Dante wanted roads, hospitals, clinics, train stations, private airports checked.
I interrupted.
“Stop.”
Every man in the room looked at me.
Dante slowly turned.
“What?”
“You’re making noise.”
“I want her found.”
“So does Voss.”
Silence.
“If he doesn’t already know where she is, you’re about to lead him there.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“He called her before we did.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she escaped recently.”
He stared.
“You want me to do nothing?”
“I want you to do something intelligent.”
Marco suddenly developed great interest in his shoes.
Dante stepped closer.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Correcting you?”
“Yes.”
“Occasionally.”
His mouth almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the office door opened.
One of our security analysts entered.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“We found the breach source.”
The forty-second-floor security loop had originated from inside Marino Tower.
Specifically from the executive network.
An administrator account.
Mine.
Everyone looked at me.
I stared at the analyst.
“No.”
“The credentials were yours.”
“I didn’t do it.”
Dante said immediately, “Obviously.”
The analyst nodded quickly.
“We know. Login originated from a physical terminal after Emily had left.”
“Which terminal?”
He hesitated.
“Brooke’s.”
Brooke looked horrified.
“I wasn’t there.”
“We know,” I said.
Her computer had been used remotely.
Someone had planted access months earlier.
Which meant the enemy had been inside our systems long before the recent crisis.
We audited everything.
Emails.
Door records.
Internal messages.
At noon, we found the first clue.
An employee named Nathan Cole.
Information technology.
Six years at Marino Holdings.
Quiet.
No disciplinary problems.
No visible ties.
His access logs showed unusual remote connections.
Dante ordered him brought upstairs.
He was gone.
Apartment empty.
Accounts drained.
Flight booked to Toronto.
Never boarded.
“We’ve been compromised for years,” Marco said.
Dante stood at the windows.
“Apparently.”
I watched him.
He hated betrayal.
But the problem was no longer betrayal.
It was architecture.
A system built around him while he believed fear guaranteed loyalty.
Clara had seen it.
Maybe that was why she died.
Or disappeared.
At 2:11 p.m., I received another message.
Not from an unknown number.
From Clara’s phone.
Emily Carter?
My breath caught.
I typed back.
Yes.
Three dots.
He trusts you?
I looked toward Dante.
Yes.
Pause.
Do you trust him?
That question was harder.
I typed:
Yes.
Then:
Where are you?
No answer.
Instead:
Ask him what happened to Daniel Price.
I turned toward Dante.
“Who is Daniel Price?”
His face changed.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Clara.”
He took my phone.
Read.
Then looked away.
“Dante.”
“He was an accountant.”
“For you?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“He stole.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
“And?”
Silence.
“Dante.”
“I had him killed.”
The words landed like cold water.
I knew what Dante was.
I had always known.
Knowing abstractly and hearing a name were different.
“Clara knew?”
“Yes.”
“Did she agree?”
“No.”
The phone buzzed.
Ask him whether Daniel actually stole it.
I showed Dante.
His brow tightened.
“He did.”
“How do you know?”
“Vincent found the transfers.”
“Vincent was investigating Anthony.”
Dante froze.
“You think Daniel was framed.”
“I think Clara is asking for a reason.”
He sat slowly.
Nine years of choices rearranged around him.
“What if…”
I waited.
“What if Anthony used me?”
There it was.
Not just Clara.
Other deaths.
Other punishments.
What if Dante’s reputation for ruthless certainty had been weaponized?
He closed his eyes.
“How many?”
I had no answer.
The phone buzzed.
Daniel knew about Voss.
Then:
He tried to warn me.
Dante stared at the screen.
His face broke.
For the first time, I saw what real accountability looked like on a man used to power.
Not excuses.
Not denial.
Horror.
“I killed an innocent man.”
I sat beside him.
“You didn’t know.”
“I didn’t ask enough.”
No answer could soften that.
So I didn’t try.
He looked at me.
“You still trust me?”
The question surprised me.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because what you do next matters.”
His eyes held mine.
Not forgiveness.
A path.
Maybe that was all anyone could offer.
Clara sent coordinates.
A motel outside Kenosha.
Dante wanted twenty men.
I insisted on four.
We arrived after dark.
Room 17.
Curtains closed.
Dante stood at the door.
His hand shook.
He knocked.
No answer.
Again.
Then the lock clicked.
The door opened.
A woman stood there.
Thin.
Scar along one side of her face.
Dark hair streaked with gray.
Dante stopped.
Everything in him stopped.
“Clara.”
She stared.
Nine years passed between them in silence.
Then Clara whispered, “You got old.”
Dante made a sound halfway between laughter and sobbing.
“So did you.”
She stepped forward.
He did too.
Then both hesitated.
Nine years.
Too much pain for a movie reunion.
No rushing embrace.
No kiss.
Only two people trying to reconcile memory with reality.
Finally Clara touched his face.
Dante closed his eyes.
She began crying.
Then he held her.
I looked away.
Not because it was private.
Because I suddenly felt like an intruder in a story that had begun long before me.
Marco touched my shoulder.
“Come on.”
We waited outside.
Twenty minutes later, Dante opened the door.
His eyes were red.
“Emily.”
I entered.
Clara sat on the bed.
She looked at me.
“So you’re Emily.”
I blinked.
“You know me?”
A faint smile.
“You made him laugh.”
My face heated.
Dante looked irritated.
“How do you know that?”
“Brooke told me.”
Of course.
Brooke had been part of Clara’s hidden contact network longer than we understood.
Clara looked between us.
Something intelligent and painful crossed her face.
“Oh.”
Dante frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
It was clearly something.
I sat.
“How did you survive?”
Clara’s expression changed.
“The bomb destroyed the driver’s side.”
“Dante was the driver,” I said.
“Yes.”
She had been in the passenger seat while maneuvering out of a garage.
A passerby called emergency services.
But before police secured the scene, a private ambulance arrived.
Voss’s people.
They moved her.
Falsified records.
Declared another burn victim as Clara.
“Why keep you alive?” Dante asked.
Clara looked down.
“Because I knew where Margaret hid the original financial ledger.”
“Did you tell them?”
“No.”
“For nine years?”
“They stopped asking after two.”
My stomach turned.
“What happened after that?”
“They kept me under another identity.”
“Why not kill you?”
Clara gave a bitter smile.
“Insurance.”
“Against Anthony?”
“Against everyone.”
She looked at Dante.
“Voss collects leverage.”
Then she turned to me.
“Your brother wasn’t the only one.”
My skin chilled.
“How many?”
“Dozens.”
Politicians.
Witnesses.
Informants.
Children of powerful people.
Anyone useful.
Dante’s voice hardened.
“Where is Voss?”
“I don’t know.”
Clara looked frightened.
“But he knows I escaped.”
“How?”
“I called Brooke.”
We all looked at each other.
Brooke.
Again.
Clara’s expression shifted.
“What?”
Dante slowly stood.
“When did you call her?”
“Yesterday.”
“What number?”
Clara gave it.
I checked.
Brooke’s current phone.
The one supposedly taken when she was kidnapped.
Meaning before the parking garage.
Before her rescue.
Brooke knew Clara was alive.
And never told us.
My stomach dropped.
Dante reached for his phone.
I caught his wrist.
“Wait.”
“Why?”
“Because if Brooke is hiding something, we need to know why.”
Clara looked confused.
“What is it?”
I turned toward her.
“What exactly did Brooke say when you called?”
Clara thought.
“She told me to stay hidden.”
“What else?”
“She said Dante had finally found my files.”
Dante’s face hardened.
“How did she know?”
Clara looked between us.
“I assumed you told her.”
We hadn’t.
Only four people knew when we opened the card.
Me.
Dante.
Marco.
And whoever was watching us.
My pulse accelerated.
Brooke had known too soon.
Dante said what we were all thinking.
“She’s still working for them.”
Then Clara shook her head.
“No.”
“How can you know?”
“Because Brooke is the one who got me out.”
Silence.
“What?”
Clara stood.
“She arranged my escape six months ago.”
The room went cold.
“Six months?” I whispered.
Clara nodded.
“I’ve been moving ever since.”
“Why didn’t you contact Dante?”
Her eyes filled with grief.
“Because Brooke told me someone close to him was the Architect’s source.”
Dante went rigid.
“Who?”
“She didn’t know.”
My thoughts raced.
Marco?
Sal?
Someone at the tower?
Then Clara said:
“She believed it was Emily.”
Nobody moved.
I stared at her.
“Me?”
Dante immediately said, “Impossible.”
Clara looked at him.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Something inside me warmed despite everything.
Clara watched us.
Then sighed.
“Good.”
“Why good?” I asked.
“Because Brooke wanted me to believe it.”
Dante frowned.
“Why?”
Clara looked toward the window.
“To keep me away from you.”
The real question became obvious.
Who had convinced Brooke I was dangerous?
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Brooke tied to a chair.
Timestamp: five minutes ago.
Below it:
Bring Clara to the forty-second floor tomorrow at midnight. Come alone, Emily.
Then another line.
Or Brooke dies.
Dante looked at me.
“No.”
I stared at the message.
For the first time, I agreed.
We would go.
May you like
But none of us would be going alone.
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