Chapter 2 - The Ghost in the Nursery
The heavy iron gates of the Lake Forest estate opened without a sound at four in the morning.
The private ambulance driver left me at the bottom of the limestone steps.
The house was entirely dark save for the security lamps burning around the perimeter.
I walked through the foyer with my coat clutched tightly across my bandaged abdomen.
The air inside smelled of stale bourbon and Bianca’s heavy lavender perfume.
On the console table sat a child’s red scarf, carelessly tossed across an antique silver tray.
Beside it lay Enzo’s gold lighter and a half-smoked cigar.
He had come home late, slept soundly, and departed early without ever verifying if his wife was breathing.
I took the marble staircase one slow, deliberate step at a time.
At the end of the western corridor stood the door I had spent three months painting by hand.
The nursery was decorated in soft ivory and dove gray.
The white crib was assembled beneath the tall arched window looking out over the frozen lawn.
Inside that room sat boxes of imported cashmere blankets, tiny leather shoes, and a silver rattle engraved with the Romano crest.
I stood in the center of the room and did not shed a single tear.
Tears were an indulgence for women who still believed in salvation.
I walked to the closet and pulled out three large leather duffel bags.
I did not take the diamond necklaces Enzo had purchased to soothe his guilty conscience.
I did not take the designer gowns purchased for high-society charity galas.
I took the deeds to the three deep-water berths in the Port of Chicago.
I took the encrypted hard drives from the false bottom of my father’s mahogany desk.
I took the original bearer bonds issued to the Romano foundation before the wedding was ever arranged.
As I zipped the last bag, the floorboards outside the doorway creaked under heavy footsteps.
Dante stood framed in the threshold, his hand resting instinctively near his left armpit.
Dante was Enzo’s top lieutenant, the man who had supposedly cleared the house while I lay bleeding.
His eyes dropped to my bandaged wrists and the hospital bracelet still clinging to my skin.
He tried to summon his customary sneer, but his jaw twitched with unmistakable apprehension.
He asked me where I thought I was going in the middle of the night.
I stepped forward until the cold overhead light caught the bruises across my throat.
I asked him how much the Tatalias had paid him to tell Enzo the road to West Archer was clear.
The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse standing upright.
He reached for his jacket, but he was far too slow.
From the shadow behind him, two men in gray wool coats stepped into the corridor.
They were not Moretti soldiers.
They were Romano loyalists who had served my father for thirty years.
Dante did not even have the chance to draw his weapon before he was pinned face down against the hardwood.
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I stepped over his struggling frame without looking back down.
I told my men to leave him breathing just long enough to tell Enzo what he had lost.
