Chapter 7
DANTE
The accounting firm of Quinn & Associates sits in a modest building on the outskirts of Chicago's financial district. As far as I know, there are no associates. I've been here before, years ago with my father, but never with murder on my mind.
Today is different.
I push through the door with enough force to rattle the frame. I prefer to face my problems. Richard is my problem.
The receptionist—a nervous woman in her fifties—looks up from her computer with a practiced smile that dies the moment she sees my face.
"Mr. Sokolov," she stammers. "I—we weren't expecting you."
"Where's Richard?"
"He's in his office, but he's with a client—"
I'm already moving past her desk, ignoring her protests. Richard Quinn's office is at the end of the hall, his name etched in gold letters on frosted glass.
I don't knock.
The door slams open with enough force to crack the glass, and Richard jumps up from behind his desk, papers scattering across the floor. He's exactly as I remember him—average height, graying hair, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. The kind of man you'd trust with your children's college fund.
The kind of man who's been stealing from my family.
"Dante," he says, his voice shaking. "What—why are you here?"
"You know why I'm here, Richard."
He glances past me to Viktor, who is still sporting two black eyes from the punch I delivered. He’s positioned himself at the door like the professional he is. No escape, no witnesses.
"I don't understand," Richard says, sinking back into his chair. "Is this about the quarterly reports? Because I submitted those last week—"
"Five million dollars."
I watch his face, searching for any sign of guilt, any tell that would confirm what I already know. Instead, I see confusion. Genuine, bone-deep confusion that makes something cold twist in my gut.
"Five million—what?" Richard's voice cracks. "Dante, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." I move closer to his desk, my hands flat on the polished surface. "Don't insult my intelligence by playing dumb. The money, Richard. Where is it?"
"What money?" He's practically pleading now, his hands shaking as he reaches for his glasses. "I manage your accounts, yes, but I've never taken anything. Not so much as a penny. You have to believe me."
The desperation in his voice is real. The fear is real. But so is the evidence Bogdan showed me, and in my world, evidence trumps emotion every time.
"The Cayman accounts," I say coldly. "The shell companies. The wire transfers using your access codes. Want me to continue?"
Richard goes white. "Someone's been using my codes? But that's impossible. I'm the only one who—" He stops, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Someone is setting me up."
"Who?"
Few people ever admit to their sins right away. It’s human nature. He’ll deny it. He has to. But denial doesn’t change facts.
"I don't know!" He stands up, desperation making him bold.
"But think about it, Dante. Why would I steal from you?
Your father trusted me for fifteen years.
I helped build those accounts, you know how much your family means to me.
Hannah doesn't even know what I really do for a living because I wanted to protect her from this world. "
Hannah. The mention of her name makes my chest tighten with emotions I can't afford to feel.
"Your daughter is safe," I say, which isn't exactly a lie.
"Where is she?" The question comes out like a gunshot. "What have you done with my daughter?"
"She's under my protection."
"Your protection?" Richard's voice rises. "You took my child?"
"I took collateral for a debt that needs to be paid."
"There is no debt!" He slams his hand on the desk. I'm almost impressed by his courage. Most men would be begging for their lives by now. "I've never stolen from you or your family. Someone is playing us against each other."
"Prove it."
"How can I prove a negative?" He runs his hands through his hair, leaving it standing up in tufts.
"You have the account records, you have access to everything.
Look at my personal finances—do I live like a man who's stolen five million dollars?
Do I drive expensive cars, take lavish vacations, wear thousand-dollar suits? "
He's right, and that's what's bothering me. Richard Quinn lives modestly, drives a ten-year-old Honda, wears off-the-rack clothes that have seen better days. If he's been embezzling millions, he's been remarkably restrained about spending it.
But the evidence is still there. The transfers, the shell companies, the digital trail that leads directly back to him. He would be smart enough to keep it hidden. He’s probably planning an escape. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he had a house in some faraway place.
And we would find it. Nothing and no one would ever stay hidden from us. Me. My people and the governing body that ruled the underworld.
"One week," I say, cutting through his protests. "You have one week to return the five million dollars, or your daughter becomes a permanent part of my organization."
The color drains from his face entirely. "You can't—she's innocent in all this."
"So were a lot of people who got caught in family business." I straighten my jacket, preparing to leave. "One week, Richard. Don't disappoint me."
"Dante, please—"
"You're not my handler, mob boy."
The voice comes from behind me, clear and furious and achingly familiar. I turn slowly.
Unless she’s sprouted wings and managed to fly out of my penthouse, Alexei is dead.
Hannah stands in the doorway, her auburn hair blazing like fire, her green eyes shooting daggers at me. She's wearing the same clothes from this morning, but they're wrinkled now, her professional composure completely shattered.
Alexei appears behind her, looking apologetic. I’m only slightly relieved he’s not dead with a stiletto buried in his throat. But now he needs to worry I’m going to kill him for failing the job I gave him.
"Sorry, boss. She was insistent."
His apology is half-assed.
"She's one woman," I say through gritted teeth. "How hard can it be to keep her contained?"
"Contained?" Hannah's voice rises to a dangerous pitch. "I'm not a fucking pet, you psychopath!"
She pushes past Alexei and stalks toward me, her finger pointed at my chest like a weapon. "And you," she rounds on her father, "have been lying to me my entire life!"
"Hannah, sweetheart—"
"Don't you dare 'sweetheart' me!" Her voice cracks with emotion. "You work for the mob? The actual mob? And you never thought to mention this tiny detail?"
Richard looks between us. "You took her because of me. Take me. Let her go."
"I took her because she's leverage," I say coldly, though the words taste like ash in my mouth.
"I'm not anyone's leverage!" Hannah whirls on me, getting right in my face despite the fact that I have six inches and sixty pounds on her. "I'm not property to be traded back and forth between you and my father like some kind of medieval dowry!"
Her courage is magnificent and terrifying. She has no idea how dangerous this situation is, how close she is to being hurt by people who wouldn't hesitate to use her against both Richard and me.
"You're mine until this debt is settled," I tell her quietly.
"I belong to myself."
"Not anymore."
The words hang between us like a gauntlet thrown down. Hannah stares at me with a mixture of fury and hurt that cuts deeper than any knife.
"You bastard," she whispers.
Before she can say anything else that might get her killed, I grab her arm and pull her against me, my mouth next to her ear.
"Calm down, Red," I murmur, my voice low enough that only she can hear. "I've got this."
She struggles against my grip, but I hold her firmly, breathing in the scent of her hair, trying to ignore how right she feels in my arms.
"Let me go," she hisses.
"Can't do that."
I look over her head at Richard, who's watching us with the dawning realization that this situation is far more complicated than he imagined.
"One week," I repeat. "Find the money, or I keep her."
"And if I can't find money I never stole?"
I don't answer, because we both know what happens then. In my world, debts are always paid, one way or another.
I start to guide Hannah toward the door, but she digs in her heels, turning back to her father with tears streaming down her face.
"Dad, tell me you didn't do this. Tell me you didn't steal from them."
"I didn't, baby girl. I swear to you on your mother's grave, I didn't steal anything."
The raw honesty in his voice is hard to ignore. This man isn't acting. The confusion, the desperation, the absolute conviction in his denial—it sounds real.
But I can’t believe him. I’ve seen the proof. I’ve interrogated plenty of men that deny their crimes with their last breath. It doesn’t change anything.
"I believe you," Hannah says quietly.
"Hannah," Richard calls as I guide her toward the door. "I'll fix this. Whatever it takes, I'll fix this."
She doesn't answer, but I feel the shudder that runs through her. Whether it's from anger or grief or fear, I can't tell.
Outside the building, I help her into the back of my SUV, noting how she doesn't fight me anymore. The fight has gone out of her, replaced by something that looks dangerously like despair.
"He's telling the truth," she says as Alexei starts the engine.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I know my father." She turns to look at me, her eyes red-rimmed but determined. "He's many things—apparently including a criminal accountant—but he's not a thief. Someone is setting him up."
I ignore her. Of course, she’s going to defend her father.
“Will you kill me?”
Alexei looks at me.
“You’re safe—for now.”
"Safe." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Is that what you call kidnapping now?"
"I call it staying alive."
"Take us home," I tell Alexei, and try to ignore the way Hannah flinches at the word. “And we’ll talk later about what it means to keep someone locked down.”
He chuckled, clearly not worried about the price he would pay for disappointing me.
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” Hannah whispers. “You are so going to regret this.”
I glance over at her. She doesn’t look mad or scared.
I see disappointment.
And for some reason, that is worse than anything.