Chapter 2 - The Name Dante Romano Was Never Supposed to Hear Again
Sophie slept for twenty-three minutes that night.
Not twenty-three consecutive minutes.
That would have been luxurious.
Instead, she slept in fragments.
Seven minutes.
Four minutes.
Maybe twelve.
Each time she closed her eyes, she heard Dante’s voice again.
If Sophie Bennett is his daughter, then somebody lied to me fifteen years ago.
By six in the morning, she gave up pretending she would rest.
Her apartment sat above a bakery on the northwest side of Chicago, small enough that she could stand in the kitchen and touch the living-room wall without moving much.
It was not glamorous.
But it was hers.
And until last night, it had been peaceful.
Sophie sat at the tiny kitchen table wearing an oversized sweatshirt, staring at a cardboard box she had not opened in years.
Her father’s belongings.
She had carried that box through four apartments.
Never unpacked it.
Some memories were easier to preserve when they remained closed.
She pulled the lid away.
Old receipts.
Photographs.
A corkscrew with a wooden handle.
A broken wristwatch.
And beneath them, a black notebook.
Her father’s tasting journal.
Sophie touched the cover.
Her throat tightened.
She opened it.
Page after page of handwriting.
Dates.
Regions.
Importers.
Clients.
Notes.
Barolo—too young.
Bordeaux—excellent after thirty minutes.
Bellini Reserve—do not trust first impression.
Sophie froze.
She turned the page.
Another entry.
Bellini Family Reserve, private shipment. Romano order.
Her pulse quickened.
Romano.
She read the line twice.
Then a third time.
Her father had sold wine to the Romano family.
Sophie had never known.
She turned several pages.
More Bellini notes.
Then one entry near the back.
The handwriting was hurried.
Messier than usual.
D.R. does not know. Shipment redirected. Carlo says keep quiet.
Sophie’s fingers went cold.
D.R.
Dante Romano?
Carlo?
She remembered a name from her childhood.
Carlo Romano.
Dante’s father.
A man whose photograph had appeared in newspapers after his death.
Sophie closed the journal.
She suddenly felt as though the little apartment had become too small.
At seven thirty, her phone vibrated.
A message from the Romano household manager.
Mr. Romano requests that you report to the study at 9:00.
Sophie stared at it.
Requests.
That was comforting.
She dressed carefully.
Then placed her father’s notebook inside her bag.
At exactly nine, she stood outside Dante’s study.
The door was open.
He sat behind the desk.
The wine bottle was gone.
In its place lay a thin brown folder.
“Close the door,” he said.
Sophie did.
Dante gestured toward the chair.
She sat.
He looked tired.
Not dramatically so.
Just enough that she suspected he had slept no more than she had.
“You overheard me last night.”
It was not a question.
Sophie considered lying.
Then remembered whom she was speaking to.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Dante leaned back.
“Your father worked with my family.”
“I discovered that this morning.”
His eyes sharpened.
“You have records?”
Sophie opened her bag.
Removed the notebook.
Dante stared at it.
For a moment, he did not move.
Then he held out his hand.
Sophie did not give it to him.
His eyes lifted.
“It belonged to my father.”
“I know.”
“If I let you read it, it stays with me.”
Dante almost smiled.
“Reasonable.”
She handed it across the desk.
He opened the journal carefully.
His expression changed as he read.
Page after page.
Then he reached the Bellini entry.
His jaw tightened.
Sophie watched him.
“What does it mean?”
Dante closed the notebook.
“Fifteen years ago, my family was trying to purchase the Bellini vineyard.”
“That sounds dramatic for grapes.”
“It wasn’t about grapes.”
Dante folded his hands.
“The Bellini estate sat on land used as collateral for several businesses. Whoever controlled it could influence debts worth millions.”
Sophie frowned.
“And my father?”
“He acted as a private wine importer for my father.”
“He sold you bottles.”
“He transported documents.”
Sophie stared.
“What?”
“Wine shipments were discreet. Nobody searched them. My father used certain importers to move contracts, financial records, sometimes cash.”
Sophie looked at the journal.
“My father would never—”
“I’m not accusing him.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Dante’s voice lowered.
“I’m saying Michael Bennett may have discovered something he was never supposed to see.”
Sophie felt a chill.
“The fire.”
Dante said nothing.
“The fire at our business happened three months before he died.”
“I know.”
She stared at him.
“You know?”
Dante pushed the brown folder toward her.
Inside were photographs.
Her father.
Younger.
Standing outside Bennett & Son Imports.
Another image showed him shaking hands with Carlo Romano.
Sophie’s stomach tightened.
Then she found a police photograph of the burned warehouse.
She closed the folder.
“Why do you have these?”
“Because I spent part of last night finding them.”
“You kept records on my father?”
“My father did.”
Sophie stood.
“Did your family kill him?”
The room became silent.
Dante remained seated.
His expression was controlled.
“My father was capable of many things.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
Sophie laughed once, without humor.
“The most powerful man in Chicago doesn’t know?”
“I was twenty-two when your father died.”
“That’s old enough to remember.”
“I remember too much.”
Something in his voice made Sophie stop.
Dante looked toward the windows.
“My father and I were not partners then. I was his son. There is a difference.”
He rose.
Walked to the cabinet.
Removed a decanter of water.
Not wine.
He poured two glasses.
Sophie refused hers.
Dante drank.
“Three days before Michael Bennett died, he came to this house.”
Sophie’s breath caught.
“What?”
“I remember because he argued with my father in that room.”
Dante pointed toward the far wall.
“The doors were closed. I couldn’t hear everything.”
“What did you hear?”
“Your father said someone was stealing from the Romano businesses.”
Sophie’s heart pounded.
“He said he had proof.”
“What proof?”
“I never saw it.”
“What happened next?”
“My father ordered him out.”
“And three days later my father died.”
“Yes.”
Sophie stared at Dante.
A horrible possibility formed.
“You think Carlo killed him.”
Dante’s face hardened.
“I think someone had a reason to.”
“And you never investigated?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“After my father died.”
“Which was when?”
“Eight years ago.”
Sophie shook her head.
“So you waited seven years?”
“I didn’t know the full story until then.”
“This is unbelievable.”
“Sophie.”
“No. You don’t get to say my name like that.”
She stepped closer.
“My father died when I was twenty. My mother was already gone. I buried him alone. I spent years believing it was an accident.”
Dante’s gaze remained steady.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t answer anything.”
“No.”
“Then answer this. Why did you recognize his name immediately?”
Dante’s expression changed.
Because this was the question he had been hoping she would not ask.
Sophie saw it.
“Why?”
He walked back to the desk.
Opened a drawer.
Removed an old photograph.
Placed it before her.
Sophie looked down.
Four men stood outside a vineyard.
Carlo Romano.
Michael Bennett.
Two others.
One man Sophie did not recognize.
The second—
She did.
Her breath vanished.
“No.”
Dante watched her.
The man in the photograph had a narrow face.
Silver hair.
A calm smile.
Sophie had seen him three weeks earlier at the Romano estate.
He had introduced himself as Dante’s uncle.
Vittorio Romano.
“You know him,” Dante said.
“He comes here.”
“Yes.”
“He knew my father?”
“Apparently.”
Sophie looked at the picture again.
Something was written on the back.
Dante turned it over.
A date.
And beneath it:
Bellini deal. Bennett knows. V.R. furious.
Sophie looked up slowly.
“V.R.”
Dante’s eyes were cold now.
“Vittorio Romano.”
A knock came at the study door.
Both of them froze.
Dante closed the folder.
“Who is it?”
A familiar male voice answered from the hallway.
“Your favorite uncle.”
Sophie’s blood ran cold.
Vittorio entered before Dante invited him.
He wore an immaculate gray suit and a pleasant smile.
His gaze moved from Dante to Sophie.
Then to the old notebook resting on the desk.
For the briefest moment, his smile disappeared.
Then it returned.
“Sophie,” he said warmly. “I didn’t know you and my nephew were having a private meeting.”
Dante stepped between Vittorio and the desk.
“Household matter.”
“Of course.”
Vittorio studied Sophie.
“You look pale, my dear.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
His eyes dropped to her bag.
Then back to her face.
“Do take care of yourself.”
He turned toward Dante.
“Lunch at one?”
“Maybe.”
Vittorio smiled.
“I’ll see you then.”
He walked out.
The door closed.
Sophie released the breath she had been holding.
Dante immediately picked up the photograph.
“From now on, you do not discuss your father with anyone.”
“Especially Vittorio?”
“Especially him.”
Sophie slid the notebook back into her bag.
“You think he knows something.”
Dante’s face had become unreadable again.
“I think he recognized that notebook.”
Sophie stared at the closed door.
Down the hallway, Vittorio Romano stopped beside a window.
He removed his phone.
Dialed a number.
And quietly said:
“She found Michael Bennett’s journal.”
A pause.
His expression darkened.
May you like
“Take care of it before Dante discovers what really happened.”
---
