Chapter 4 - Whispers Beneath The Surface
The subterranean wine cellar of the Moretti estate was colder than the water at the bottom of the pool.
Rows of antique vintages sat silently in oak racks, completely indifferent to the weeping woman tied to an iron chair.
Victoria shivered violently, her bare feet resting flat against the damp, unpolished concrete flooring.
The heavy steel vault door at the end of the corridor groaned loudly on its thick hinges.
Footsteps approached with deliberate, agonizing slowness, accompanied by the quiet hum of rubber tires.
Dante rolled into the dimly lit vault, dressed in a dry black cashmere sweater and tailored trousers.
His hair was slicked back neatly, his jaw freshly shaved, presenting the image of absolute, terrifying calm.
Behind him walked Marcus, carrying a sleek black leather briefcase that smelled strongly of fresh leather.
Dante stopped his chair three feet away from his weeping wife, his face unreadable in the shadows.
He asked her very softly who had promised her that he would die easily tonight.
Victoria raised her chin defiantly, spitting a mixture of saliva and blood onto the floor near his tires.
She hissed that she was sick of being a prisoner to a crippled man who was losing his grip on the streets.
She told him that the syndicate needed a young, virile leader, not a broken relic rotting in a chair.
Dante did not flinch, did not raise his voice, and did not blink at her vicious, cutting insults.
He casually gestured toward Marcus, who laid the black leather briefcase flat on a nearby wooden table.
The latches popped open with two loud, sharp clicks that echoed like gunshots against the stone walls.
Marcus pulled out a thick stack of printed bank statements, passport copies, and intercepted text messages.
Dante leaned forward, his elbows resting firmly on the armrests of his wheelchair, his eyes piercing her soul.
He told her that he was paralyzed from the waist down, but he was certainly neither deaf nor blind.
He dropped the documents into her lap, scattering glossy surveillance photographs across her bare knees.
The photos showed Victoria sitting inside a secluded restaurant booth in downtown Chicago.
Sitting across from her was none other than Julian Vance, the ruthless underboss of the rival Volkov syndicate.
Victoria’s arrogant expression shattered instantly into pieces as the blood drained entirely from her face.
Dante asked her if she truly believed Julian loved her, or if he merely wanted the Moretti family ledger.
He explained that the Volkovs had financed the assassination attempt six months ago that took his legs.
When that ambush failed to finish him off, Victoria had been tasked with completing the job herself.
The prize promised to her was sixty million dollars transferred into a shell company in the Cayman Islands.
Victoria began to tremble, realizing that her husband had known about the plot long before the party began.
She stammered, asking why he had allowed her to push him into the water if he already knew the truth.
Dante’s eyes narrowed until they looked like shards of black volcanic glass beneath the dim hanging bulb.
He whispered that he needed to see her do it with his own eyes, without a single shred of doubt remaining.
He needed to know beyond any uncertainty that the woman he had loved was capable of cold-blooded murder.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a terrifying growl that raised the tiny hairs on her arms.
He informed her that her beloved Julian was not waiting for her at the safehouse with open arms.
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Julian was currently parked two miles down the road in an unmarked van, fully expecting her to fail.
And more importantly, Dante added with a bitter sneer, Julian’s real connection to this house was standing upstairs.
