Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Penthouse
At 2:00 AM, I unlocked the front door of the two-story penthouse at the Waldorf Astoria overlooking the glittering neon spine of Las Vegas Boulevard.
The vast living room was dark, save for the rhythmic pulsing of the distant casino billboards bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling glass.
This had been my home, the place where I waited up until three in the morning for Dante to return smelling of expensive tobacco and gun grease.
This was where I had made his favorite espresso, ironed his silk pocket squares, and nursed his bullet-graze wounds without ever asking who pulled the trigger.
I walked across the white Italian marble floor toward our master suite, slipping off my heels so the stone made no sound.
I pulled three large Rimowa suitcases from the walk-in closet.
I did not take the diamond necklaces, the platinum watches, or the Birkin bags Dante had gifted me after his supposed "business trips" to soothe his hidden guilt.
Those items had been purchased with dirty money, bought as hush gifts while he was sleeping with my sister.
Instead, I packed my original birth certificate, my passport, my private art sketches, and my grandmother’s vintage gold locket—the only piece of jewelry my father gave me before he died.
I packed my practical clothes: simple cashmere sweaters, tailored wool slacks, and comfortable leather boots.
As I zipped the second suitcase, the heavy bronze handle of the master bedroom door turned with a low, familiar click.
I stood upright, smoothing down my sweater, my pulse steadying into an eerie, cold calm.
Dante stepped into the room, holding his suit jacket by one finger over his shoulder, his tie loosened at his throat.
He looked weary, his jaw darkened by stubble, but the faint scent clinging to his collar was not cigar smoke or whiskey.
It was the distinct, sickeningly sweet scent of Johnson's baby powder mixed with Lily’s signature vanilla orchid perfume.
"Claire?" Dante said, freezing when he saw me standing beside the luggage.
His dark, obsidian eyes flicked from my face down to the suitcases, then back to my eyes.
For a fraction of a second, a flash of raw panic flared in his gaze, but his trained mafia composure smothered it almost instantly.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice low, measured, and carefully casual as he dropped his jacket onto the bed.
"Where are you going in the middle of the night?"
I looked at him, studying the handsome angles of the face I had loved so unconditionally for thirty-six months.
"I'm taking an art restoration seminar in Florence, Dante," I said smoothly, not a single tremor betraying my words.
"I mentioned it to you two weeks ago, but you were on the phone with your Buenos Aires contacts."
Dante paused, his brow furrowing as his brain rapidly tried to cross-reference my statement against his fabricated timeline.
He had been so occupied arranging Lily’s secret luxury apartment and buying off obstetricians that he had not listened to a single word I spoke all month.
"Florence?" he echoed, stepping closer to me, reaching out a hand to touch my cheek.
I did not flinch, but the moment his warm palm touched my skin, my stomach coiled with revulsion.
His fingers had held Lily’s hand just three hours ago; his hands had cradled Isabella.
"You usually don't travel without telling Marco to assign you a security detail, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumb brushing my cheekbone.
"The Moretti name has enemies in Europe right now."
"It's an academic workshop, Dante," I replied, meeting his dark eyes with a smile so fragile and sweet it made his suspicion dissolve entirely.
"A private gallery tour in Tuscany with six elderly curators."
"Nobody knows who I am there."
"Besides, you're always busy."
"You just got back from South America, didn't you?"
At those words, Dante’s eyes flickered slightly, a shadow of discomfort passing over his features before he nodded.
"Yeah," he lied without blinking.
"The meetings in Argentina were exhausting."
"The flights were delayed for twelve hours."
"I just came back to shower, change my clothes, and check on some issues at the Bellagio."
"I might have to be away for another couple of days to clear the backlog."
"I understand completely," I said softly, stepping back from his touch to zip my third bag.
"Your work always comes first."
"You should go take a hot shower, Dante."
"You smell like... a hospital nursery."
Dante’s entire body went rigid.
The breath in his lungs seized, his eyes widening in sudden, paralyzing alarm.
I looked at him calmly, holding his gaze with absolute innocence.
"Did you stop by the pharmacy on the way home to buy hand sanitizer?" I asked smoothly.
"Or is that some new antiseptic hand wash your driver uses?"
The tension drained from Dante’s shoulders in an audible rush of relief, a faint, self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips.
"Yeah... Marco had some industrial disinfectant in the car," Dante stammered, pulling at his collar.
"You know how paranoid the drivers are about germs."
"Of course," I said, picking up my handbag.
"Arthur Vance is having a driver pick me up in twenty minutes for the red-eye flight."
"You don't need to stay awake for me."
"Go rest, Dante."
"You look like a man who has carried an unbearable weight on his shoulders."
Dante stared at me, an inexplicable sensation of unease creeping back into his eyes, as if his survival instincts were screaming that something fundamental had just shattered in his world.
He reached out, catching my forearm gently.
"Claire... when you get to Italy, call me the minute your plane touches down."
"Don't stay more than a week."
"I... I missed you while I was away."
I looked at his hand on my sleeve, then looked up into the eyes of the man who had destroyed my sister and betrayed my home.
"I'm sure you did," I said quietly.
May you like
"Goodbye, Dante."
I pulled my arm free from his grasp, wheeled my suitcases out through the double doors, and never looked back.
