Chapter 16
DANTE
The morning starts with blood on my hands and the metallic taste of violence in my mouth.
Another man Bogdan believed to be part of what was shaping up to be a ring of co-conspirators.
Another series of questions.
More denials.
No one was telling me shit which left Richard in my crosshairs. I was going to have to pull the trigger. This organized embezzlement scheme requires action.
But as I wash the evidence from my skin in the basement's utility sink, I think about Hannah.
When I kill Richard, I kill whatever we might have built between us.
It will be gone.
I finish washing the blood, but this morning’s interrogation had gotten a little—messy. I needed to change clothes before I saw Mila.
I head upstairs and am about to step into the passageway when Hannah appears.
She stares at me with shock and horror. “Are you okay?”
She rushes toward me. I hold out my hand to stop her from touching me. “I’m fine.”
“Dante, there’s blood all over—”
That’s when the crew emerges from the basement with a body bag. Everyone freezes. I can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. She’s putting it all together.
Her face goes white, then green. I watch her stomach lurch as understanding hits her like a physical blow.
"Oh God," she whispers, one hand pressed to her mouth. "Oh God, what did you do?"
The cleanup crew looks between Hannah and me like they're not sure whether to keep going or return to the basement.
I gesture for them to keep moving. They disappear through the service exit with their grim cargo.
Hannah backs away from me, her eyes wide with horror. "You killed someone. In your own house. Where your daughter lives."
"The situation required immediate resolution," I say, keeping my voice calm despite the way she's looking at me—like I'm a monster.
"The situation—" She laughs, but there's no humor in it, just the brittle edge of hysteria. "You mean murder. You mean you murdered someone in your basement like some kind of—"
"Like some kind of what, Hannah? What exactly did you think I was?"
The question stops her short. She stares at me, and I can see her trying to reconcile the man who held her last night with the one who just executed someone in the room below us.
"I thought—I hoped—" She shakes her head violently. "Who was he?"
"Someone who betrayed my family."
"Like my father supposedly betrayed your family?"
The connection she's making sends cold dread through my veins. "This is different."
"Is it?" She moves closer, fury overriding her fear. "Is this what happens to people who cross you? Is this what you're planning to do to my dad?” Her face goes white again. “Was that my father!”
“No,” I assure her. “It was not your father.”
I want to lie and tell her that Richard Quinn's fate will be different, but I've never been good at pretty lies, especially not to her.
"This is what happens to people who steal from us," I say instead. "This is what happens to people who betray the trust we place in them."
"I want to speak to my father."
"Hannah—"
"Right now. I want proof of life, or I'm going to assume you've already done to him what you did to that poor bastard downstairs."
The demand is reasonable, even smart. If I were in her position, I'd want the same reassurance. But the fear in her voice and the way she's backing away from me like I might grab her next, cuts deeper than it should.
"Your father is safe," I tell her. "For now."
"Prove it."
I study her face, noting the way her hands shake despite her defiant tone. She's terrified, but she's not backing down. The courage she's showing in the face of what she just witnessed is both admirable and dangerous.
"Fine," I say, pulling out my phone. "But you get one minute. And you don't say anything that might endanger him further."
I dial Richard Quinn's number, watching Hannah's face as the phone rings.
When her father's voice comes through the speaker—tired, worried, but very much alive—I see her shoulders sag with relief.
"Dad?" she says, moving closer to the phone.
"Hannah? Jesus, sweetheart, are you okay? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. I'm—" She glances at me, and I can see her measuring her words carefully. "I'm safe. Are you?"
"For now. Hannah, listen to me—"
I end the call, cutting off whatever Richard was about to say. Hannah lunges for the phone, but I hold it out of her reach.
"I said one minute,” I said calmly.
"He wasn't finished!"
“Yes, he is.”
Her lip quivers. "You're going to kill him anyway, aren't you? Just like you killed that man downstairs."
"That depends on whether he returns what he stole from us."
"He didn't steal anything!" The words explode out of her, loud enough that I glance toward the stairs, worried about who might overhear.
"I went through your so-called evidence, Dante. All of it. And it's bullshit."
I go very still. "What did you say?"
"The timeline doesn't match. The signatures are wrong. The amounts are too convenient, too round." She's pacing now, her analytical mind working through the details. "I have a business degree. I know how to read financial documents. And these documents are fake."
The conviction in her voice gives me pause. I've been operating on the assumption that Bogdan's evidence is solid, but Hannah's pointing out discrepancies I hadn't considered.
"Show me," I say.
"What?"
"Show me what you found. The inconsistencies."
We go to my office, where the files are still on my desk. Hannah moves through them with the efficiency of someone who knows what she's looking for, pointing out details I'd overlooked.
"And that's not the only discrepancy. The account numbers don't match his usual patterns. The transfer amounts are all in round numbers—nobody embezzles in exact millions, Dante. Real theft is messier, more random."
She's right. The evidence is too clean, too perfect. Too much like what someone would create if they wanted to frame an innocent man.
It’s the same thought I’ve had since all of this began.
"I want to see the actual transaction records," she continues. "Not summaries or reports. The raw data from the banks."
"Hannah—"
"You owe me that much. If you're going to kill my father based on this evidence, at least make sure it's real evidence."
The word 'kill' hangs between us like a blade. She knows what I am now and what I'm capable of. There's no going back to the careful fiction we've been maintaining.
"I don't have access to—"
"Bullshit." She slams her hand on the desk. "You're telling me the head of the Chicago Bratva can't get bank records? You can't verify your own evidence?"
The challenge in her voice stings more than it should. She's questioning not just my methods, but my competence. My judgment.
"Fine," I say. "I'll get the records. But if they confirm what I already know—"
"Then I'll accept it. But if they don't..." She meets my eyes, her expression fierce with protective fury. "If they prove what I already know—that my father is innocent—then you're going to let us both go."
"Hannah—"
"No." She stands up, moving toward the door. "I'm done with your lies and your manufactured evidence and your fucking power games. My father is innocent, and you know it. You're just too proud to admit you've been played."
"Played by whom?"
She pauses at the door, looking back at me with something that might be pity. "That's what you need to figure out, isn't it? Who benefits from my father taking the fall for this theft?"
The question hits hard because she's right—someone does benefit from Richard Quinn being labeled a traitor. Someone gets away with five million of my money.
"And another thing," Hannah says, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "If you think what happened between us last night means I belong to you, think again. You'll never have me again. Never. I don't know who you are, but I know you're not the man I thought you were."
The words cut deeper than any knife. "Hannah—"
"You're a monster," she says quietly. "And I was an idiot for forgetting that."
She leaves, closing the door behind her with quiet finality. I'm left alone with my doubts and the evidence that suddenly looks a lot less convincing than it did an hour ago.
I know she's right about me being a monster. I've never pretended otherwise, never tried to be anything other than what this world made me. I've killed men with my own hands and ordered deaths without losing sleep. I’ve built an empire on fear and violence.
But for some reason, hearing it from her lips feels like a verdict I can't bear.
A knock on the door interrupts my brooding. Bogdan enters without waiting for permission.
"I saw Hannah leaving," he says, settling into the chair across from my desk. "She looked upset."
I gesture at my bloody clothing.
"Ah." Bogdan nods sympathetically. "Civilian women aren't built for the realities of our world. Perhaps it's time to consider other arrangements for her."
The suggestion makes my blood run cold. "What kind of arrangements?"
"Nothing permanent," he says quickly. "Just... relocation. Somewhere more suitable for someone with her sensibilities."
"She stays here."
"Of course." Bogdan spreads his hands. "Your call entirely. I was just thinking about what might be best for everyone involved."
"What did you want to report?"
His expression grows serious. "More evidence against Quinn. I'm afraid you're not going to like it."
He produces another folder, this one thicker than the previous ones. More bank records, more transaction logs, more proof of Richard Quinn's supposed guilt.
"This confirms everything we already suspected," Bogdan says. "Richard has been stealing from us for a very long time. The evidence is overwhelming."
I study the documents, but Hannah's voice echoes in my head. Too clean, too perfect, too much like what someone would create if they wanted to frame an innocent man.
"Where did you get this information?" I ask.
"Our contacts at the banks. The same sources we've always used."
"And you verified it personally?"
"Of course." Bogdan looks offended by the question. "Every transaction, every timestamp, every signature. It's all legitimate."
But is it? Or is it just more manufactured evidence designed to convince me that an innocent man deserves to die?
"I want independent verification," I say finally.
"What?"
"Independent verification. From sources outside our usual network. "
Bogdan's expression shows his irritation. "That could take time. And it might alert Quinn to our investigation."
"Then we make sure he doesn't find out."
"Dante, we have everything we need to proceed. Why complicate things with unnecessary delays?"
Because a woman I'm falling in love with just looked at me like I'm a
monster and told me her father is innocent. Because I can't shake the feeling that I'm being manipulated by someone I trust. Because for the first time in my life, keeping someone happy matters more than maintaining my reputation for ruthless efficiency.
"Because I want to be sure," I say.
Bogdan nods slowly, but I catch the disappointment in his eyes. Like I’m failing him by not immediately murdering Richard.
"Of course," he says. "I'll make the arrangements."
After he leaves, I sit alone in my office, torn between the evidence of Richard Quinn's guilt and Hannah's passionate defense of her father's innocence.
One of them has to be wrong.