Chapter 4 - Blood on the Ledger
The rest of the day blurred into a painful cycle of medication,
forced rest,
and the oppressive silence of the massive estate.
Outside the heavy velvet curtains,
I could hear the faint sounds of vehicles arriving and departing,
the muffled voices of men speaking in urgent tones,
the undeniable signs of an army preparing for battle.
Dante did not return to the room for several hours,
leaving me alone with my dark thoughts and the throbbing ache in my chest.
I tried to distract myself by mentally reviewing his schedule,
a pathetic attempt to cling to my old,
normal life,
but all I could see were the faces of the men in the alley,
the flash of their fists,
the smell of their cheap cigarettes.
When the bedroom door finally opened again,
it was late afternoon,
the fading sunlight casting long,
dramatic shadows across the opulent carpet.
Dante walked in,
carrying a slim silver laptop in one hand,
his jacket discarded,
his tie loosened around his collar,
looking more like a tired warrior than a corporate CEO.
He pulled the velvet chair closer to the bed,
setting the laptop on his knees,
his expression grim and resolute.
"We need to talk,"
he said,
opening the laptop screen,
the harsh blue light reflecting in his dark eyes,
"and you need to tell me absolutely everything you remember about the men who attacked you."
I nodded,
wincing as the movement pulled at the muscles in my neck,
bracing myself to dive back into the nightmare.
"There were three of them,"
I started,
my voice shaking slightly,
"they drove a black Lincoln,
older model,
maybe early two thousands,
the paint was scratched on the passenger side."
Dante typed rapidly on the keyboard,
his fingers flying across the keys with practiced speed,
logging every detail into some hidden database.
"What about their faces?"
he asked,
not looking up from the screen,
"scars,
tattoos,
accents?"
I closed my eyes,
forcing myself to picture the terrible moment,
pushing past the pain and the fear to find the crucial details.
"The one who spoke,"
I whispered,
"the one who gave me the message,
he had a thick accent,
Russian,
definitely Russian."
"Victor's men,"
Dante muttered,
his jaw clenching tight,
"did you see any identifying marks on him?"
I thought harder,
remembering the way he gripped my hair,
the rough texture of his skin,
the brief flash of ink hidden beneath his shirt cuff.
"A tattoo,"
I suddenly realized,
my eyes flying open,
"on his right wrist,
just peeking out from under his sleeve,
it looked like a black eagle,
but it had two heads."
Dante stopped typing immediately.
His hands froze over the keyboard,
the silence in the room instantly becoming electric,
charged with a sudden,
lethal tension.
He slowly closed the laptop,
setting it aside on the bedside table,
before turning his full attention back to me,
his eyes burning with a dark,
consuming fire.
"A two-headed eagle,"
Dante repeated,
his voice dangerously low,
"the crest of the Bratva,
Victor's personal guard,
the ones who handle his executions."
He stood up abruptly,
pacing the length of the room like a caged panther,
his mind working at terrifying speeds,
calculating variables I could not even begin to comprehend.
"They sent the executioners to deliver a message,"
Dante said aloud,
speaking more to himself than to me,
"which means this is not a warning,
this is a declaration of absolute war."
I watched him pace,
feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline mask the pain in my ribs,
a reckless courage born of sheer desperation.
"Dante,"
I called out,
my voice surprisingly firm,
"the backup drive,
the one I keep at my apartment,
did your men find it?"
Dante stopped pacing,
turning to look at me with a sharp,
questioning gaze.
"I told you,"
he replied,
"they found nothing of value,
the place was torn apart."
"No,"
I insisted,
struggling to sit up straighter against the pillows,
ignoring the fiery protest in my chest,
"they wouldn't have found it,
it is hidden behind the loose baseboard in the kitchen,
behind the refrigerator."
Dante stared at me,
a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his guarded features.
"You kept a hidden backup of my encrypted files?"
he asked,
his tone a mix of disbelief and dangerous curiosity.
"I am your secretary,"
I said,
holding his intense gaze without flinching,
"my job is to ensure that your business runs smoothly,
even if the main servers are compromised,
even if someone tries to burn your empire to the ground."
Dante took a slow step towards the bed,
his eyes scanning my face as if seeing me for the very first time,
recognizing the sharp intellect I usually kept hidden behind a polite smile.
"What is on the drive,
Harper?"
he demanded softly.
"Everything,"
I breathed,
"the offshore accounts,
the zoning board bribes,
the port authority schedules,
and the old ledgers from ten years ago."
Dante's eyes widened fractionally.
"The ledgers from the harbor war,"
he deduced,
his mind instantly grasping the massive implications.
"Yes,"
I confirmed,
"if Victor gets his hands on that drive,
he can trace every dollar you took from him,
he can find your weaknesses,
he can dismantle your legitimate businesses piece by piece."
Dante did not say a word for a long,
agonizing moment.
He reached for his phone,
dialing a number with rapid precision,
his face a mask of cold,
calculated violence.
"Marcus,"
Dante spoke into the phone,
his voice carrying the weight of a death sentence,
"take a tactical team to the girl's apartment immediately,
tear the kitchen apart,
check the baseboards,
May you like
and if you find any Russian rats scurrying around in the dark,
you burn them alive."
