Chapter 3 - SOMEONE CHOSE ME
I hadn't slept in twenty-six hours.
I still wasn't tired.
Fear does strange things to your body.
It can make your hands shake while your mind becomes terrifyingly clear.
Three weeks.
Someone had been watching me for three weeks.
Dante stood beside the window in his study while Marco placed copies of the photographs across the desk.
There were twelve.
Me carrying groceries.
Me unlocking my apartment.
Me leaving Bellini's.
Me standing beside a bus stop.
One had been taken through my kitchen window.
I touched the photograph.
“This is impossible.”
Dante watched me.
“Why?”
“My apartment is on the fourth floor.”
Marco's jaw tightened.
“Then whoever took it was inside the building across the street.”
I sat down.
For the first time since the crash, I wanted to cry.
Not because someone had tried to kill Dante.
Not because Vanessa hated me.
Because someone had stood in a dark window and watched me eat cereal alone in my kitchen.
That felt worse.
Dante picked up another photo.
“Who knew your schedule?”
“Everyone at work.”
“Family?”
“My mother died when I was sixteen.”
“Father?”
“Never knew him.”
“Siblings?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
Marco lifted an eyebrow.
I glared at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“You hesitated.”
“I didn't hesitate.”
“You did.”
Dante's expression sharpened.
“Previous boyfriend?”
I hated how quickly he noticed things.
“Evan.”
“Last name?”
“Reese.”
“When did you break up?”
“Eight months ago.”
“Reason?”
I looked at Dante.
“Do you interrogate everyone about their terrible dating decisions?”
“When someone is trying to kill them.”
“No one's tried to kill me.”
Marco pointed at the surveillance photographs.
“Give it time.”
I shot him a look.
Dante said, “Evan Reese.”
I sighed.
“He gambled.”
Dante's expression changed slightly.
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
“You always know.”
“He owed people around forty thousand.”
“To whom?”
“He never said.”
Marco was already typing.
“Description?”
I gave it.
Five minutes later, Marco turned his tablet toward Dante.
There was Evan.
Arrest record.
Illegal betting.
Assault.
Debt collection.
And a photograph of him leaving a club called The Crown.
My heart stopped.
The logo above the entrance was a black crown.
Rinaldi.
Dante looked at me.
“You didn't know?”
“No.”
“When was this?”
Marco checked.
“Four months ago.”
Three months before Evan and I separated.
I felt sick.
“He said he was playing poker downtown.”
“He probably was,” Marco said.
“Just for the wrong people.”
Dante's phone rang.
He answered without looking away from me.
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then his face hardened.
“Bring him in.”
He ended the call.
“Who?”
“Your ex-boyfriend.”
My chair scraped backward.
“You found him?”
“My men did.”
“That quickly?”
Dante looked almost offended.
“Cara.”
Right.
Mafia boss.
Ten minutes later, I heard shouting downstairs.
Evan was dragged into the study.
He looked terrible.
Bruised cheek.
Wrinkled shirt.
Terror in his eyes.
Then he saw me.
“Cara?”
I stood.
“What did you do?”
“What are you doing here?”
“You tell me.”
He looked at Dante.
His face drained.
“I didn't touch her.”
Dante sat behind his desk.
“No one said you did.”
Evan's eyes moved toward the photographs.
He stopped breathing.
“Where did you get those?”
My heart sank.
“You've seen them.”
“No.”
“You recognized them.”
Evan looked at me.
“I can explain.”
Those words never introduce anything good.
Dante leaned back.
“Please do.”
Evan swallowed.
“I owed money.”
“I know.”
“Rinaldi's people offered to erase it.”
My legs weakened.
“For what?”
He looked at me.
“I was supposed to give them information about you.”
“Me?”
“Your work schedule. Where you lived.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“You sold me to criminals and didn't ask why?”
“I didn't think they'd hurt you!”
I hit him.
My palm cracked across his face.
Marco didn't stop me.
Neither did Dante.
“You gave strangers my address.”
“Cara—”
“You gave them my apartment!”
“I was desperate.”
“You were always desperate.”
My voice broke.
“I paid your rent. Your gambling debts. Your mother's medication. And you sold me for forty thousand dollars?”
Evan started crying.
Good.
I wished I could cry too.
Dante said, “What else?”
Evan looked at him.
“Nothing.”
Dante's tone became almost gentle.
“Evan.”
The man collapsed.
“They wanted her hired at Bellini's.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I told them she already worked there.”
“No,” I whispered.
I had started at Bellini's eleven months ago.
Evan continued.
“They asked if she worked private tables. If she could be scheduled near certain booths.”
Dante's eyes sharpened.
“Who?”
“I don't know names.”
Marco stepped forward.
“You're lying.”
“I'm not!”
“Who contacted you?”
“A guy called Sullivan.”
Dante and Marco exchanged a look.
“Patrick Sullivan?” Marco asked.
Evan nodded.
Marco cursed.
“Who is he?” I asked.
Dante answered.
“My security consultant.”
The room changed.
Marco stared at Dante.
“He's been inside every property we own.”
Dante stood.
“Find him.”
Marco was already leaving.
Evan looked terrified.
“Can I go?”
Dante stared at him.
“No.”
Two guards removed him.
I watched the door close.
Everything inside me felt hollow.
Dante came closer.
“Cara.”
“Don't.”
He stopped.
“I trusted him.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
Dante's face hardened.
“You'd be surprised.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Is this the part where the mafia boss tells the waitress he understands betrayal?”
“Yes.”
Something about his answer made my anger collapse.
I sat.
“Why me?”
Dante didn't answer.
“Why would your security consultant want me at Bellini's?”
Marco rushed back in.
“We have a problem.”
Dante looked up.
“Sullivan?”
“Gone.”
“Find him.”
“We're trying.”
“What problem?”
Marco held up his phone.
“Vanessa's second phone.”
Dante's expression changed.
“What about it?”
“We broke the encryption.”
“And?”
“There are messages with Sullivan.”
My stomach twisted.
Dante's face became unreadable.
“Show me.”
Marco placed the phone on the desk.
Messages.
Vanessa: Is she in position?
Sullivan: Yes.
Vanessa: Make sure Cara hears everything.
I stopped breathing.
Another message.
Sullivan: What if she doesn't follow?
Vanessa: She will.
Sullivan: How can you know?
Vanessa: Because Cara Fields always tries to save people.
My eyes blurred.
Dante looked at me.
I couldn't speak.
They knew my name.
My personality.
My life.
They had studied me.
The next message was from Sullivan.
And if Moretti dies?
Vanessa's response:
Then the waitress becomes unnecessary.
Dante went still.
Marco swore.
I backed away from the desk.
“She planned all of this.”
Dante didn't answer.
“She wanted me to hear.”
“Yes.”
“She expected me to follow you.”
“Yes.”
“And if you survived, I'd accuse her.”
Dante looked troubled.
“That still doesn't explain why she would incriminate herself.”
A scream came from upstairs.
We all turned.
Another scream.
Gunfire.
Dante moved before anyone else.
He drew a weapon from beneath his jacket.
Marco did the same.
“Stay here,” Dante ordered.
Absolutely not.
I followed them.
Men were running through the corridor.
“East wing!”
My room.
My guard lay on the floor bleeding from his shoulder.
The balcony doors stood open.
Rain blew inside.
Dante moved toward them.
“Don't!”
I grabbed his arm.
Something flashed outside.
A gunshot exploded.
Glass shattered.
Dante pulled me down.
Marco fired into the darkness.
Guards rushed onto the balcony.
The shooter disappeared.
Then I saw something on my bed.
A white envelope.
My name was written on it.
Cara Fields.
Dante opened it with gloved hands.
Inside was an old photograph.
A woman holding a baby.
My mother.
I recognized her instantly.
She was twenty-seven in the picture.
My age now.
Standing beside her was a man whose face had been torn away.
On the back, someone had written one sentence.
ASK DANTE WHO YOUR FATHER WAS.
I stared at it.
Dante's face turned pale.
Not because of blood loss.
Because he recognized something.
“You know,” I whispered.
He didn't answer.
“You know who he was.”
Marco looked confused.
“Boss?”
Dante stared at the photograph.
Then at me.
“When did your mother die?”
“You know when. I told you.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
His jaw tightened.
“Where?”
“New Jersey.”
“What year?”
“Why?”
“Cara.”
“2009.”
Dante closed his eyes.
Marco's expression changed.
“What is it?”
Dante whispered a name.
“Michael Fields.”
I felt the room tilt.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Your father's name wasn't Fields.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What was it?”
Dante hesitated.
I shouted.
“What was his name?”
His answer came quietly.
“Michael Rinaldi.”
The world stopped.
I stared at the black crown tattoo photographed in my memory.
The family trying to destroy Dante.
The family behind the brake sabotage.
The family that had been watching me.
Dante's voice seemed far away.
“Cara…”
“No.”
I stepped backward.
“You're lying.”
“I wish I was.”
“My father disappeared before I was born.”
“He didn't disappear.”
“Then where is he?”
Dante looked at the photograph again.
“He died.”
My mouth went dry.
“When?”
His eyes met mine.
“Six months before you were born.”
I swallowed.
“How?”
Dante said nothing.
And suddenly I understood why he looked guilty.
“Who killed him?”
Silence.
Marco moved toward the door.
“I'll give you two privacy.”
“Don't.”
I kept my eyes on Dante.
“Answer me.”
Dante's voice dropped.
“My father ordered the hit.”
Everything inside me went cold.
The Moretti family had killed my father.
May you like
The Rinaldi family had spent weeks manipulating me.
And I had just saved the son of the man responsible.
