Chapter 7 - THE TRAITOR AT SUNDAY DINNER
There were nine people who ate at Dante’s family table most Sundays.
His mother had died when he was young.
His father was gone.
The remaining circle was small.
Uncle Salvatore.
Marco DeLuca.
Dante’s cousin Enzo.
His aunt Lucia.
Two senior captains.
Dante’s chief financial officer.
His family attorney.
And Daniel Costa.
I hated that Daniel’s name belonged on the list.
So did Dante.
“Salvatore is manipulating us,” Daniel said.
We had returned to the secure apartment.
“He wants us looking inward.”
“He also knew Antonio was poisoned,” I said.
Daniel frowned.
“So did the medical examiner.”
“Then why did the family accept cancer?”
Dante’s expression darkened.
Because the Moretti doctor had confirmed it.
Dr. Raymond Vale.
Family physician for twenty-eight years.
Sunday dinner guest twice a month.
Daniel checked him.
Vale was missing.
His clinic closed unexpectedly that morning.
Another runner.
Dante rubbed a hand across his face.
I watched him.
“Your whole instinct is to hunt.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Excuse me?”
“This network survives because whenever you identify a threat, you attack the obvious person.”
“And?”
“And someone is feeding you obvious people.”
Marco runs.
Vale disappears.
Salvatore confesses to crimes but denies murder.
Every movement pushes Dante in another direction.
I opened the Bellini contract again.
“Follow what they cannot fake.”
“Money?”
“Language.”
Dante frowned.
“Contracts have habits.”
I pulled archived Orfeo documents from my old case files.
Clause structure.
Punctuation.
Specific phrases.
The same unusual wording appeared repeatedly.
Material disruption reasonably foreseeable by a prudent operator.
I searched Moretti records.
Forty-six matches.
Thirty-nine had been reviewed by the same internal attorney.
Thomas Rinaldi.
Dante’s family lawyer.
Sunday dinner.
Dante’s face became cold.
“Thomas helped write my prenup.”
“I know.”
“He handled my father’s estate.”
“I know.”
“He sits beside you every Christmas.”
“I know.”
Daniel found more.
Rinaldi had authorized transfers to the doctor who certified Antonio’s death.
He had also processed Marco’s payments to Orfeo.
And he had reviewed the Bellini agreement.
Dante stood.
“We have him.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“We have evidence.”
“Then what do you want?”
“To know who he reports to.”
We created a false crisis.
Daniel leaked that the original Geneva evidence had been recovered from my old firm.
Complete beneficiary records.
Names.
Bank accounts.
Everything.
Twenty-seven minutes later, Thomas Rinaldi made a call.
Not to Salvatore.
Not Marco.
Not any known Orfeo number.
To someone inside Bellacorte.
Vittorio Bellini’s restaurant.
Daniel traced the recipient.
Lorenzo Bellini.
The same man who had spent dinner insulting me.
Dante stared at the screen.
“So Lorenzo knew.”
I looked at the call history.
“No.”
“What?”
“He isn’t receiving instructions.”
I pointed to the duration.
Four seconds.
Then another call went from Lorenzo’s phone to an unregistered number.
“His phone is being used as a relay.”
Daniel decoded the final destination.
A private residence in Chicago.
Dante recognized the address immediately.
His expression changed.
“It belongs to my aunt Lucia.”
Antonio Moretti’s younger sister.
The woman who had practically raised Dante.
May you like
The woman who called me every Wednesday to ask whether her nephew was eating enough.
And according to the call trace, she had just received confirmation that I needed to die.
