Chapter 5 - The Night He Found Her Again
Clare called Dante immediately.
He answered before the first full ring.
“Clare?”
“We need to talk.”
The urgency in her voice changed him.
“What happened?”
“Michael Murphy.”
Silence.
A terrible, unmistakable silence.
Clare's stomach dropped.
“You know the name.”
“Where are you?”
“The diner.”
“I am coming.”
“No, answer me.”
“I will explain in person.”
“You promised no more secrets.”
“I promised no investigations.”
“Don't play word games.”
“Clare—”
“Did you know my father?”
“No.”
“Did your family?”
Another silence.
That was enough.
She ended the call.
Tommy watched from the register.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Want me to call somebody?”
“I already did.”
Ten minutes later two black vehicles stopped outside.
So much for normal.
Dante came through the door alone.
Nico and three others remained outside.
Clare stood near the counter holding the photograph.
Dante saw it immediately.
His face hardened.
“Where did you get that?”
“Under the door.”
He reached for it.
Clare pulled it back.
“Answer first.”
“Clare.”
“Michael Murphy.”
Dante looked around.
Only Tommy and Marcus were present.
“Not here.”
“I am not getting into your car.”
“I didn't ask you to.”
“Then talk.”
He lowered his voice.
“My father knew him.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“How?”
“Business.”
“What kind?”
Dante looked at Tommy.
Clare understood.
“Tommy, can we have a minute?”
Tommy did not need asking twice.
He vanished into the kitchen.
Dante sat at the counter.
Clare remained standing.
“My father, Vittorio Caruso, operated several businesses in Queens in the nineties.”
“Businesses.”
“Yes.”
“My father worked for him?”
“For one of his companies.”
“What company?”
“Trucking.”
Clare knew almost nothing about Michael Murphy.
Her mother had removed him from their lives so completely that by adolescence Clare had stopped asking.
“He drove trucks?”
“Sometimes.”
“What happened?”
Dante stared at the countertop.
“Michael discovered that one of my father's partners was using legitimate shipments to hide illegal cargo.”
Clare's heartbeat quickened.
“Moretti?”
“Yes.”
She gripped the edge of the counter.
“Michael threatened to go to authorities.”
“And?”
“He disappeared.”
Clare stared.
“No.”
“I am sorry.”
“No.”
“Clare—”
“My mother said he left.”
“She may have believed that.”
“She knew everything about everyone.”
“Maybe she was protecting you.”
Clare stepped backward.
“No.”
Dante stood.
She lifted a hand.
“Don't.”
He stopped instantly.
“You knew this before you met me?”
“No.”
“When did you learn?”
“After.”
“You investigated me.”
“Before I promised not to.”
Anger flashed.
“You found my father.”
“I found his name in an old file.”
“When?”
“The day after the diner.”
“And you didn't tell me.”
“I did not know enough.”
“You knew he had disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“You knew your family was involved.”
“My father's partner was involved.”
“Your family.”
Dante's jaw tightened.
“My father tried to protect Michael.”
“How convenient.”
“It is the truth.”
“According to whom?”
“Rosa.”
Clare remembered the older woman.
Warm voice.
Knowing eyes.
“Rosa knew my father?”
“She managed my father's restaurant at the time. Michael ate there often.”
Clare's anger collided with confusion.
“Why wouldn't my mother tell me?”
“I don't know.”
“You seem to know everything else.”
“That is unfair.”
She laughed once.
“Unfair?”
Dante's expression changed.
Regret.
“Wrong word.”
“Very.”
Clare looked at the photograph again.
“Why would Moretti send this now?”
“To create distrust.”
“It worked.”
Pain moved across Dante's face.
Very briefly.
It made Clare angry at herself.
Then angry at him for making her care.
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted facts first.”
“You wanted control.”
His silence admitted it.
Clare rubbed her eyes.
She had barely slept.
“What happened to my father?”
“I don't know.”
“Is he dead?”
“I don't know.”
“Don't lie.”
“I am not.”
“Twenty-four years, Dante.”
“Seventeen.”
“What?”
“You were seven when he disappeared.”
She stared.
Of course Dante knew.
The investigation.
“Seventeen years.”
“Yes.”
“If he's alive—”
“I will find him.”
“No.”
Dante frowned.
“No?”
“We will find out.”
“You should not be involved.”
“There it is again.”
“This is dangerous.”
“It's my father.”
“And Moretti is using him to pull you into something.”
“Then maybe I was already in it.”
Dante stepped closer.
His voice softened.
“You were seven.”
“That doesn't erase it.”
“No.”
Something in his face told Clare he understood childhood burdens too well.
“Tell me everything.”
“I will.”
“All of it.”
“Yes.”
“No protecting me from facts.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“No deciding what I can handle.”
His jaw tightened.
But he said, “Yes.”
Clare looked at the photograph again.
“Where?”
Dante understood the question.
“We shouldn't do this here.”
“Your house?”
“No.”
She laughed bitterly.
“You don't trust your house?”
“I trust my house.”
“Then why?”
“Because I suspect you would feel trapped there.”
Clare looked at him.
He was learning.
Damn him.
“Somewhere public.”
Dante thought.
“I own a restaurant.”
“Of course you do.”
“It has a private rooftop.”
“Public?”
“The main dining room is.”
“Fine.”
That night Clare arrived wearing the only white blouse she owned that did not belong to her uniform.
The restaurant sat high above Manhattan.
Glass walls.
Candlelight.
A glittering skyline stretching beyond the terrace.
It looked nothing like her life.
Clare immediately felt underdressed.
Then she saw Dante.
Black suit.
Black shirt.
No tie.
Tattoos visible near one wrist.
He stood when she approached.
His eyes moved over her face rather than her clothes.
“You came.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I was not certain.”
“I considered making you wait three days.”
“Cruel.”
“You survived.”
They sat near the window.
No bodyguards at the table.
Nico stood far enough away to honor the rule.
A waiter approached.
Clare watched Dante order sparkling water.
“No wine?”
“I want a clear head.”
That answered more than she expected.
Dinner barely mattered.
Dante brought a folder.
Inside were copied records.
Michael Murphy.
Employment history.
Trucking manifests.
A photograph of a younger Michael standing beside a loading dock.
Clare stared.
Her father's face looked familiar in ways memory had erased.
Same eyes as hers.
Same crooked smile.
Tears blurred the image.
Dante remained silent.
He did not touch her.
Did not offer empty comfort.
Clare appreciated that.
“Your father found discrepancies,” he said. “Shipments diverted from legitimate routes.”
“To Moretti?”
“His organization.”
“And your father?”
“My father confronted Salvatore.”
“Then?”
“Michael disappeared within a week.”
“Did Vittorio kill him?”
“No.”
“You sound sure.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
Dante looked at her.
“Because my father spent years trying to find him.”
Clare's breath caught.
“Why?”
“Guilt.”
“For what?”
“For bringing Michael into business with Moretti.”
Dante slid another paper across.
A payment record.
Monthly transfers.
To Margaret Murphy.
Clare stared at the amounts.
“No.”
“My father secretly helped your mother for years.”
“My mother would never accept Caruso money.”
“She apparently did not know.”
The payments came through a charitable foundation.
Medical assistance.
Rent relief.
Anonymous.
Clare's hands shook.
Her mother's cancer treatments.
The bills that somehow became manageable for several months.
The anonymous grants Margaret called miracles.
Clare looked up.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I learned this yesterday.”
She searched his face.
Believed him.
Then her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A message.
Pretty view.
Clare's blood went cold.
Attached was a photograph.
Taken seconds earlier.
Clare sitting across from Dante in the rooftop restaurant.
Dante saw her expression.
“What?”
She handed him the phone.
His face changed instantly.
Nico moved before Dante said a word.
The restaurant's atmosphere shifted.
Security appeared near doors.
Dante stood.
“We're leaving.”
Clare looked toward the windows.
Manhattan glittered below.
Beautiful.
Indifferent.
Someone was watching them from somewhere in the city.
May you like
And this time they wanted both Dante and Clare to know it.
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