Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Dante
I got word from our guys at the Gulf Corridor. That was the shipping route Salvador mentioned before. I'd beefed up security there, and sure enough, we caught a few rats sniffing around.
After some persuasion, they gave up their boss—Javier Mendez.
The guy worked for Hector Cruz, head of the Cruz family. Had a reputation. Stone-cold killer. Didn't think we'd be crossing paths this soon. But now we had proof. Getting our hands on them was just a matter of time.
They'd learn soon enough whose city this was. You covet what belongs to someone else, you better be ready to pay for it.
Valentina pushed through the door. I snapped the file shut. One look at her face—all helpless and wounded—and I knew she'd struck out.
She dropped into the chair across from my desk. "Dante, I told her everything."
"And?"
"Elena..." Valentina's head dipped, fingers lacing together on the desk. "She didn't believe me. Not completely. I think she sees me as just... covering for you."
I said nothing.
Elena was stubborn as hell. She played obedient, sure, but I knew better. That was just her armor. What happened yesterday—I'd been reckless. If I wanted to fix this, I'd have to face her myself.
Valentina looked up at me, eyes pooling with tears. "Dante, if Elena doesn't want me here, if I'm making things impossible between you two, I can go back to Mexico."
I hadn't suggested anything of the sort. "What are you talking about?"
She wiped at her eyes. "I never should've come back. I just... I missed you so much. But I don't want to make things difficult for you. I can't stand seeing you like this."
I looked at Valentina's wounded expression. She never used to cry this easily. She used to solve her own problems, then crow about hitting some new milestone.
But the woman in front of me—maybe Salvador's people had kept her caged too long. She'd developed this fragile edge.
The guilt crept back in. "You don't have to leave. I'll talk to Elena. You've done enough."
She nodded, eyes swimming with something complicated she couldn't quite say, and left the office. I hit the intercom and called Marco in.
"How's my wife?"
Marco stood with his hands behind his back, thinking back. "She and Miss Valentina talked downstairs for a few minutes. Didn't look too hostile. Mrs. Moretti's back at the manor now."
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling. "Good."
Marco didn't leave. Instead, he handed me another file. "That background check you wanted on Mrs. Moretti. Information came through."
I raised an eyebrow and flipped it open.
"Her mother lives in Queens. Owns a two-bedroom apartment, decent location. Currently works as a cashier at a big chain supermarket. Stable job. No criminal record, no ties to any organizations."
I opened the folder. Inside were photos of a woman who looked to be in her fifties, wearing a supermarket uniform, busy at a register. Her features echoed Elena's, but she looked decades older, crow's feet stamped deep around her eyes.
"What about the father?"
Marco paused. "Not much of a trail. But according to neighbors, he was a gambler.
Racked up serious debt. Collectors used to show up at the house regularly.
But he hasn't been around in years. Could've run, could be dead.
Either way, he's not living with Mrs. Moretti's mother, and he's not affecting their lives. "
I closed the folder. Sat in silence for a moment, drumming my fingers on the desk.
Elena's background was clean. Ordinary as they come. Single-parent household, mother working checkout, father a gambling deadbeat who split. No connection to any families or operations.
If this intel was solid, then why the hell did she become my wife?
I used to think Salvador had forced her hand. Or maybe she wanted money. But her mother had steady work, and Elena barely spent anything after the wedding. She wasn't money-hungry. And her relationship with Salvador seemed adversarial, not like someone under his thumb.
I leaned back, fingers tracing the folder's edge.
A thought surfaced—one that made my heart skip.
Was she in love with me?
I bolted upright. My chest felt like something had slammed into it. I needed to know if I was right. I glanced at my watch, then at the pile of unfinished work on my desk. For the first time, I abandoned it all, grabbed my coat, and walked out.
Marco followed. "Dante, where are you going?"
"The manor."
The drive took over an hour. The sun hadn't set yet when we arrived.
A servant said Elena was resting in the bedroom. When I pushed the door open, only the bedside lamp was on, casting a dim, soft glow.
Elena lay on her side against the headboard, buried under the covers, face pale as the pillow. Papers were spread in front of her, a pen in her hand. She was writing something, slow and focused.
She heard the door and looked up.
That look hit me square in the chest. Her eyes were drained of light. Gray and empty, radiating a kind of desolate calm.
She saw me but didn't speak.
I walked over. "I heard you haven't eaten in two days. I had Lucia bring food."
Her voice came out hoarse. She kept writing. "Don't worry about me."
I stood in the doorway, that sentence choking off whatever I was about to say.
The Cruz family kept testing our borders. I'd barely slept in days. Her hospitalization nearly sent the whole office into chaos. I knew Valentina hadn't given her a satisfactory explanation, so I dropped everything and drove out here. And this was what I got.
Lucia brought in a tray and set it on the nightstand. She sensed the tension and wisely kept her mouth shut as she left.
"I'll eat. Don't worry." Elena picked up a bowl without looking at me and took a few small bites before setting it down. "There. I'm done. If you're worried I'll die in your room, don't be. I'm not that stupid."
"What the hell are you talking about?" I was losing it. "Valentina came to explain. Yesterday was staged to provoke you. I know using that method was wrong. You can ask me for anything you want."
That seemed to touch something. Elena looked up at me. Her once-round face looked gaunt now.
She asked, "Dante, I want you to protect me. Can you do that?"
I had instincts for danger. Her question, her appearance—something was wrong. I moved closer, bracing my hand beside her, leaning down. "Are you hurt?"
Maybe my proximity loosened something in her. Elena's brow creased with hurt, blinking back tears. She asked a confusing question. "Dante, if Valentina ever tried to hurt me, would you stand against her? Would you protect me?"
"Why would she hurt you?" I took Elena's hand, trying to reassure her. "Elena, you're my wife. I told Valentina I can't give her what she wants. She's accepted that."
"Looks like you really trust her." Elena pushed me back a bit and pulled her hand away.
My patience ran out. I was the Don of the Moretti family. Cold and ruthless—that's what I was supposed to be. Managing one woman's tangled emotions wasn't on my list of skills.
"If someone tries to hurt you, you can ask anyone at the manor for help." I gripped her shoulders. "Elena, I'm busy. I can't be by your side every second. I know being my wife puts you in danger. But you need to trust me."
She looked at me, eyes flooding with disappointment. "I understand."
I knew her emotions were unstable. My theory—now wasn't the time to ask. My gaze fell on the papers scattered on the bed. Design sketches. A suit. Several pages with detailed construction notes.
I picked one up. "Is this the suit you're making me?"
Elena climbed out of bed and pulled a measuring tape from the drawer. "Since you're here, let's take your measurements. Then you can wear what I designed for you sooner."
I nodded and shrugged off my jacket. Elena held the tape, circling my waist, draping it over my shoulders, recording every dimension. Her movements were light, fingertips barely grazing my body like feathers, skittish and distant.
In the warm lamplight, I could see her lashes trembling faintly, like a fragile doll. My heart—frozen for so long—ached at the sight of her like this.
I reached out and caught her wrist. Elena looked up. I tightened my grip and pulled her into my arms.
I held her close, resting my chin on top of her head, breathing in the faint floral scent clinging to her.
"Elena, what I feel for Valentina is guilt. She ended up in Mexico because of me. Salvador had her controlled for years. I owe her. That's all."
Elena went still in my arms, but I felt her breathing grow shallow, like she was hanging on every word.
After a long moment, she hugged me back lightly and changed the subject. "Salvador's not doing well. You should see him."
I stroked her hair. "Okay."
When she was calmer, we could talk about what really mattered.
When I stepped into Salvador's room, the air felt thick with death. The spacious room was crammed with medical equipment. The heart monitor beeped in steady rhythm. The IV pump ran silently, clear liquid dripping down a thin tube into Salvador's body.
He lay in bed, the face that once commanded New York's underworld now skeletal. His eyes were shut, sockets sunken deep. A breathing mask covered his face. Every breath seemed labored, drawn out.
Alfredo told me Salvador hadn't woken in nearly a week. The doctors said his organs were failing. That he'd made it this long was a miracle.
"Father."
My voice echoed low and rough in the quiet room.
Salvador didn't respond. Only the green line on the monitor flickered, proving he was still alive.
I sat in the chair beside the bed, hands clasped on my knees. "I've got a lead. Won't be long before I rip the Cruz family out of New York and send them crawling back to Mexico."
Night deepened outside. The machines kept their steady rhythm, counting down.