Chapter 8 - THE SECOND DISAPPEARANCE
Alexander was in Chicago when I called.
He answered on the first ring.
“Claire?”
“Dante is missing.”
Silence.
“How do you know?”
I told him about the box.
His voice changed instantly.
“Leave your apartment.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Ask. Don’t order.”
He inhaled.
“Please leave your apartment and go somewhere secure.”
Better.
I did.
German police and federal contacts coordinated.
The threat had been delivered through a courier who knew nothing.
Alexander flew to Frankfurt.
This time, I let him into my apartment.
Not because we were reconciled.
Because we had the same problem.
Dante.
Sophia’s twins.
Elena.
Alexander stood near my kitchen window.
“My mother thinks family means obedience.”
I looked at him.
“You did too.”
“Yes.”
No argument.
He continued:
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve said that.”
“I know.”
“You left me with a 104-degree fever.”
His face tightened.
“I know.”
“You called me selfish.”
“Yes.”
“You moved Sophia into our room.”
“Yes.”
“You expected me to care for children you thought were yours.”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
I wanted him to defend himself.
Maybe because anger was easier when he did.
But Alexander simply said:
“There is no explanation that makes those things acceptable.”
My throat tightened.
That was the apology I had needed months earlier.
Not reasons.
Not context.
Accountability.
We found Dante through Elena’s mistake.
She used an old Moretti safe house outside Munich.
Alexander knew the property.
Police surrounded it.
Dante was inside.
Alive.
Unhurt.
He had gone voluntarily at first.
Elena had promised information about Salvatore’s remaining accounts.
Then locked him in when he refused to help her move the twins’ trust.
No shootout.
No dramatic rescue.
Just handcuffs.
Elena looked at Alexander when police led her out.
“You chose Claire over your family.”
Alexander answered:
“No.”
She stopped.
“I chose truth over you.”
That hurt her more.
Dante returned to Sophia.
The twins were safe.
The seventy million was frozen pending court review.
And I thought the worst was over.
Then Dante told me something quietly.
“Elena didn’t bring your wedding ring from Chicago.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“She never touched it.”
“Then who left the box?”
Dante looked at Alexander.
“We assumed Elena sent the threat.”
“She didn’t?”
“No.”
Alexander’s expression changed.
Someone else had wanted me to return.
Someone who knew about the ring.
Someone with access to the mansion.
Marco Bellini.
May you like
Alexander’s right-hand man.
The man who had served him for fifteen years.
