Chapter 4 - The Envelope Clare Refused to Open
Dante was still in the car when Nico called.
He listened without interrupting.
That was one of the things his people found unnerving about him.
Dante did not shout when angry.
He became quieter.
By the time Nico finished describing the man in the gray coat, Dante's driver had noticed the change in the rearview mirror and stopped making eye contact.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Moretti?”
“One of his runners.”
Dante looked through rain-streaked glass toward the distant glow of Queens.
“Did he speak to Clare?”
“No.”
“Did she notice him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he follow her?”
“No. He left.”
Dante's jaw flexed.
“Stay near her.”
“Understood.”
“She cannot know.”
Nico hesitated.
That alone irritated Dante.
“What?”
“You promised her no investigations.”
“I am not investigating her.”
“You also know how she reacts when she feels managed.”
Dante looked down at his hand.
He could still remember the brief warmth of her wrist beneath his fingers.
How quickly he had let go.
He had spent his entire adult life surrounded by people who treated his wishes as instructions.
Clare treated them as suggestions.
Sometimes bad ones.
She had no idea how rare that was.
“I said keep her safe.”
“She may consider surveillance another violation.”
“Then do not be seen.”
Nico gave a humorless laugh.
“Of course.”
The call ended.
Dante leaned back.
He had made an error.
Not speaking to Clare.
Not returning to the diner.
Caring.
His father had taught him that attachment created weakness.
His uncle had demonstrated it.
His enemies believed it.
Dante had spent years making sure nobody could be used against him.
No serious relationships.
No predictable routines outside business.
No one he could not afford to lose.
Then a tired waitress in a terrible yellow uniform had looked directly at him and called him a mobster.
Now Salvatore Moretti's people were watching her.
Because Dante had laughed.
Because he'd returned.
Because powerful men could hide many things, but apparently not interest.
Across Queens, Clare was thinking about none of that.
She was thinking about rent.
Her landlord had taped a notice downstairs announcing another increase beginning in two months.
Seventy-five dollars.
Not catastrophic.
Except Clare's finances lived permanently one minor inconvenience away from catastrophe.
She sat at her tiny kitchen table after one in the morning, still wearing Dante's shoes.
Bills formed small towers around her.
Electricity.
Phone.
Medical debt left from her mother's final months.
The hospital had negotiated some of it.
Not enough.
Clare had been twenty-one when Margaret Murphy died.
Old enough to sign forms.
Young enough to believe every bill represented a personal failure.
She opened her banking app.
Then closed it.
The number would not improve through repetition.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
She stared.
Answered.
“Hello?”
“Are you home?”
Dante.
“How did you get my number?”
Silence.
“Dante.”
“Nico.”
“You promised.”
“I promised not to investigate you.”
“You got my personal number.”
“I had it before the promise.”
“That is the worst defense I've ever heard.”
“Possibly.”
Clare rubbed her forehead.
“Why are you calling?”
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
Her irritation sharpened.
“Why?”
Another pause.
“Someone was watching you tonight.”
Clare's hand stopped.
“The man in the gray coat?”
Dante swore softly in Italian.
“So you noticed.”
“Yes.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“No.”
“Approach you?”
“No.”
“Follow you?”
“I don't think so.”
“What did he look like?”
“Dante.”
“Clare.”
His voice had changed.
No flirtation.
No amusement.
This was the voice of the man who made rooms quiet.
“Why was he watching me?”
“I am finding out.”
“No. You already know something.”
“I know who he works for.”
Cold moved down Clare's spine.
“Who?”
“A man named Salvatore Moretti.”
“Should I know that name too?”
“I wish you did not know mine.”
That landed harder than expected.
Clare stood and walked toward the window.
Her apartment overlooked the narrow street.
Cars.
Streetlamps.
A delivery bicycle chained to a pole.
Nothing suspicious.
“Is he dangerous?”
“Yes.”
The immediate answer frightened her more than hesitation would have.
“Why would he care about me?”
Silence.
Clare closed her eyes.
“Oh.”
“Clare—”
“Because of you.”
“Yes.”
She stepped away from the window.
Her apartment suddenly felt different.
Smaller.
Exposed.
“You said getting to know you like a normal person.”
“I remember.”
“This isn't normal.”
“No.”
“You send shoes. You show up for coffee. You flirt with me. And now criminals are watching where I work?”
Anger overtook fear.
“How dare you?”
“I did not order him there.”
“But you knew this could happen.”
Dante did not answer.
That answer was enough.
“You knew.”
“I believed my distance from certain disputes would protect—”
“Stop talking like a corporate lawyer.”
His voice hardened.
“I am trying to explain.”
“Explain like a person.”
A long breath.
Then Dante said, “I underestimated the risk.”
Finally.
Plain words.
Clare sat.
“What happens now?”
“I send someone to stay outside your building.”
“No.”
“Clare.”
“No.”
“This is not negotiable.”
“Everything about my life is negotiable if I'm the one living it.”
“They already know where you work.”
“So your solution is strangers outside my home?”
“My solution is making sure you are alive tomorrow.”
The words silenced her.
Dante immediately softened.
“I am sorry.”
Clare had not expected an apology.
Again.
“I should never have allowed my interest in you to become visible.”
Something inside her twisted.
Allowed.
Interest.
Visible.
“This is why you don't have relationships, isn't it?”
He said nothing.
She knew.
“Dante.”
“Yes.”
“Do you like me?”
A strange question considering the circumstances.
But Clare needed the answer.
The line remained quiet long enough that she thought the call had disconnected.
Then:
“More than I should.”
Her heart beat painfully.
“That isn't romantic.”
“I am not trying to be romantic.”
“Good.”
“I am trying to keep you safe.”
“And then what?”
“I stay away.”
The answer hurt.
Ridiculous.
They barely knew each other.
Yet it hurt.
“So that's your plan?”
“Yes.”
“You decide for both of us?”
“It is safer.”
“Stop using safety as permission to control everything.”
“Clare—”
“No. You don't get to disappear because someone else decided to watch me.”
“You do not understand Moretti.”
“Then explain.”
“I cannot.”
“Won't.”
“Cannot.”
“Same result.”
Dante exhaled.
“This is bigger than—”
“Don't say me.”
Silence.
Clare lowered her voice.
“You don't get to make me feel like something dangerous happened because I served you coffee.”
“It happened because I was careless.”
“With what?”
“With you.”
There was something raw in the words.
Clare's anger weakened.
“Dante.”
“Lock your windows.”
“You really know how to ruin a moment.”
“Lock them.”
“They're locked.”
“The door?”
“Yes.”
“Nico will remain nearby.”
She opened her mouth.
“He stays outside. He does not enter. He does not speak to you unless necessary.”
Clare considered.
“One night.”
“Until I know what Moretti wants.”
“One night.”
“Clare.”
“One.”
He sighed.
“One.”
She nearly smiled.
“Good.”
“And tomorrow, you do not walk to work.”
“Dante.”
“A car.”
“No armored Mercedes.”
“Why?”
“I have neighbors.”
“Fine.”
“No giant men in suits.”
Another sigh.
“Fine.”
“A normal car.”
“Fine.”
“Normal driver.”
“Murphy.”
“What?”
“You are negotiating security arrangements while potentially being targeted by organized criminals.”
“Yes.”
“You are impossible.”
“You invited this.”
A small silence.
“Yes.”
His voice changed again.
“I suppose I did.”
The next morning, Clare walked downstairs expecting a black sedan.
Instead she found a battered blue Toyota with a woman in her sixties behind the wheel.
The window lowered.
“You Clare?”
“Yes?”
“Dante said you demanded normal.”
Clare stared.
The woman jerked her thumb toward the passenger seat.
“I'm Rosa. Get in.”
“Do you work for him?”
“I've known that boy since he was eleven.”
Boy.
Clare smiled despite the fear hanging over her.
She got inside.
Rosa pulled into traffic.
“What is he like?” Clare asked.
“Dante?”
“Yes.”
Rosa snorted.
“Stubborn.”
“I noticed.”
“Too serious.”
“Definitely.”
“Thinks carrying everybody's problems makes him noble.”
Clare turned toward her.
“He does?”
Rosa glanced over.
“You don't know him yet.”
Yet.
That word again.
At the diner, an envelope waited beneath the door.
No name.
No stamp.
Tommy had found it while opening.
Clare's stomach tightened.
Dante's envelopes were cream-colored and precise.
This one was cheap white paper.
She opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Clare leaving the diner three nights earlier.
Taken from across the street.
On the back, six words had been written:
Ask Dante what happened to Michael Murphy.
Clare stopped breathing.
Her father's name.
A man she had not seen since she was seven.
A man her mother refused to discuss.
A man Clare had believed simply walked away.
She gripped the photograph.
Because suddenly Moretti's interest no longer looked like an accident.
May you like
And Dante Caruso might not have been the first Caruso connected to Clare Murphy's life.
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