Chapter 11 - The Night Queens Went Dark
Dante did not go to Moretti.
That was what Clare learned later.
At the time, she assumed the worst.
He returned shortly before sunrise.
His suit was rumpled.
No blood.
No visible injuries.
But exhaustion carved shadows beneath his eyes.
Clare sat in the library.
She had not slept.
Dante stopped in the doorway.
“You waited.”
“I couldn't sleep.”
He nodded.
“Isabella?”
“Safe.”
“The children?”
“With federal protection.”
“And Moretti?”
“Still free.”
Clare looked at him.
“What did you do?”
“I met people who still work with him.”
“Why?”
“To give them a choice.”
“What kind of choice?”
“To cooperate with federal investigators or become responsible for what Moretti does next.”
Clare stared.
“No violence?”
“None.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Pain flashed.
“Yes.”
She stood.
“Then why couldn't you tell me?”
“Because I did not know if I could keep that promise when I left.”
That answer was brutally honest.
Clare's anger faltered.
Dante continued.
“I wanted to hurt him.”
The words were quiet.
“I wanted him afraid.”
Clare said nothing.
“But on the way there, I heard your voice.”
“My voice?”
“Telling me complicated is not the same as impossible.”
She remembered.
Diner booth.
Their second conversation.
Dante's gaze dropped.
“So I found another way.”
Clare approached.
“Did it work?”
“We'll know.”
She touched his hand.
A small gesture.
Forgiveness had not arrived.
But neither had abandonment.
Dante's phone rang.
Nico.
The electric grid serving several blocks near Clare's diner had gone down.
Coincidence, officially.
Nico did not believe in coincidences anymore.
Neither did Dante.
Clare grabbed her coat.
“No.”
She glared.
Dante corrected himself.
“I would prefer you not go.”
“Better.”
“The diner may be a target.”
“Tommy and Marcus are there.”
“Nico is sending people.”
“I am still going.”
Dante sighed.
“Fine.”
Queens was chaos.
Traffic lights dark.
Businesses operating on emergency lights.
Police redirecting cars.
The diner stood in near darkness.
Tommy waited outside.
“Someone broke in.”
Clare rushed past him.
The back office had been searched.
Drawers opened.
Files scattered.
Nothing obvious taken.
Marcus appeared with a flashlight.
“They didn't touch the register.”
Dante surveyed the room.
“They were looking for records.”
“What records?” Clare asked.
Nico checked the back door.
“No forced entry.”
Tommy shifted.
Everyone looked at him.
“What?”
Dante's gaze narrowed.
“Who has keys?”
“Me. Clare. Marcus.”
Marcus held up both hands.
“My key barely works in the lock.”
“Anyone else?”
Tommy hesitated.
Clare saw it.
“Tommy.”
His shoulders fell.
“My brother.”
“What brother?”
“Eddie.”
“You never mentioned a brother.”
“For a reason.”
Dante stepped forward.
“Where is he?”
“I don't know.”
Nico's expression changed.
“You know Edward Russo?”
Tommy's face went pale.
Clare looked between them.
“Apparently everybody has secret identities except me.”
Tommy rubbed his face.
“My name isn't Thompson.”
Clare blinked.
“What?”
“It's Russo.”
“Tommy Russo?”
“Yes.”
Dante went very still.
Clare understood from his expression.
“Moretti?”
Tommy nodded miserably.
“My mother's sister married into Moretti's extended family.”
Clare backed away.
“You knew who Dante was before he came in.”
“Yes.”
“You knew who I was?”
“No!”
“Were you watching me?”
“No.”
“Did Moretti put you here?”
“God, no.”
Tommy moved closer.
Dante stepped between them.
Tommy stopped.
“I left that family twenty years ago.”
“Why?” Clare demanded.
“Because I wanted a boring life.”
He gestured around the dark diner.
“This was supposed to be boring.”
Marcus muttered, “Your definition needs work.”
Nobody laughed.
Tommy continued.
“My brother never left.”
Nico said, “Edward Russo handles logistics for Moretti.”
Clare closed her eyes.
“Of course he does.”
Dante asked, “Did Edward know about Clare?”
“Not until recently.”
“How?”
Tommy looked ashamed.
“He came in three weeks ago. Saw her working.”
Before Dante.
Before the first coffee.
Clare's stomach turned.
“He was already watching me.”
“Yes.”
The room went silent.
This changed everything.
Clare looked at Dante.
“You didn't lead Moretti to me.”
Dante said nothing.
Tommy continued.
“Eddie recognized her last name.”
“Murphy.”
“He remembered Michael.”
Clare leaned against the counter.
“So Dante showing up...”
“Made them interested faster,” Tommy admitted. “But they were already asking questions.”
Dante closed his eyes briefly.
Years of guilt released in one breath.
Clare saw it.
Walked toward him.
“You didn't cause this.”
“I made it worse.”
“Maybe. But you didn't start it.”
His gaze met hers.
Something repaired itself.
Not fully.
Enough.
Then the diner's lights flickered.
Came back.
Everyone blinked.
Power restored.
Marcus looked around.
“That's good, right?”
Nico's phone rang.
His expression hardened.
“No.”
He answered.
Listened.
Then looked at Dante.
“We found Edward.”
“Where?”
“Parking garage three blocks away.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Bring him.”
Ten minutes later, two Caruso security men escorted a frightened man into the diner.
Late forties.
Similar eyes to Tommy.
Edward Russo looked at Clare first.
Then Dante.
“You have no idea what you've done.”
Dante remained calm.
“Explain.”
“Salvatore knows the federal agents have the evidence.”
“We assumed.”
“He's leaving New York.”
“Then why break into the diner?”
“To find Margaret Murphy's letter.”
Clare froze.
“What letter?”
Edward looked at her.
“The one naming the account where she hid the original recording.”
Ruiz had copies.
Not the original.
“Why does the original matter?”
“Because the copy you have is incomplete.”
Clare's pulse accelerated.
“What is on the rest?”
Edward looked at Dante.
“Something your father never wanted you to hear.”
Dante's face became unreadable.
“Where is it?”
Edward smiled nervously.
“The diner.”
Clare stared.
“My mother hid something here?”
“Not your mother.”
Edward looked toward Tommy.
“His.”
Tommy whispered, “What?”
Edward pointed toward an old framed photograph hanging near the register.
The diner's opening day.
1989.
Tommy's mother had owned the building before him.
Clare had seen the picture thousands of times.
Edward said, “Behind it.”
Marcus removed the frame.
A small recess had been cut into the wall.
Inside was a cassette.
Old.
Dusty.
Dante took it.
Written across the label were two words.
Vittorio Caruso.
Dante stared at his father's handwriting.
The recording that could destroy Moretti had another voice on it.
His father's.
And nobody knew whether Vittorio had been Moretti's enemy—
May you like
or his accomplice.
---
