Chapter 4 – Secrets and Shadows (part 2)
1386 Words
That evening, Dante found her in the lounge — the one with the fireplace and low golden lighting that made everything feel like a dream. She was curled up in one of the leather chairs, reading through the file he’d given her, her fingers trembling at the edges.
He sat down across from her and waited.
She didn’t speak for a long time.
When she did, her voice was quiet.
“There’s a line in here. A payment made from your family’s offshore account. My father signed it — six months before he died. Half a million dollars.”
Dante leaned back. “Yes.”
“What was it for?”
He met her gaze. “He saved my life.”
Christina stared at him.
“There was an ambush,” he said. “I was younger. More reckless. I’d made enemies I didn’t fully understand. Someone tipped my enemies off about a shipment we were moving through the port. Your father intercepted the message. Risked everything to warn me.”
Her voice was barely a whisper. “He never told me.”
“He wouldn’t,” Dante said. “That’s not how men like him worked. He did what was necessary. Quietly.”
“So the money was a thank-you?”
“A debt,” Dante corrected. “One I never got to repay in person.”
Christina looked away, throat thick.
“He didn’t just protect you,” Dante added softly. “He protected your mother. You. Your home. He made enemies of dangerous people by choosing to help me. That choice… it probably got him killed.”
She froze.
Her eyes flicked back to his. “What did you just say?”
Dante sighed. “You were told he died of a heart attack, right?”
She nodded slowly.
“But it wasn’t that,” he said. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean not exactly?!”
He hesitated, then stood and crossed to the liquor cabinet.
She rose and followed him.
“Dante, tell me.”
He poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass, handed it to her. “His heart failed. But not on its own. There was a substance in his blood. One that mimics cardiac arrest. It was clean. Professional.”
Christina’s world tilted. “Are you saying he was poisoned?”
He nodded once.
She dropped the glass.
It shattered across the marble.
Dante didn’t flinch.
She stared at him, shaking. “You knew this. All this time.”
“I suspected,” he said quietly. “But I couldn’t prove it. Not until recently.”
Christina backed away, breath ragged. “You should’ve told me.”
“And what would that have done?” he asked. “Put a target on your back sooner?”
Tears stung her eyes. She turned away before he could see them fall.
“You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”
“No,” he said softly. “But I did. Because someone had to.”
Christina stormed down the hallway, her chest heaving, fingers clenched into tight fists.
The walls of the penthouse — once warm and luxurious — now felt like they were closing in around her. Every portrait, every chandelier, every security camera suddenly screamed trap.
She needed air. Space. Silence.
But Enzo was waiting at the end of the hall.
“I need to go out,” she said, her voice sharper than she meant it to be.
He shook his head gently. “You know the rules. Not without Dante.”
“I don’t give a damn about his rules.”
“I do,” Enzo replied. “It’s my job to follow them. And to keep you alive.”
Christina turned away, fists trembling.
“Do you want to hit something?” Enzo asked suddenly.
She blinked at him. “What?”
“Follow me.”
⸻
Ten minutes later, they were in the training room — a sleek, minimalist space on the lower level of the penthouse with padded floors, mirrored walls, and racks of free weights and punching bags.
Enzo tossed her a pair of gloves.
She caught them awkwardly.
“You expect me to box my way out of grief?” she muttered.
“I expect you to stop shaking,” he said.
And then he waited.
Christina stared at the gloves, then at the heavy bag.
Anger flared inside her. It was easier than the sadness. More familiar than fear. She slid her hands into the gloves.
The first punch hurt.
The second stung less.
By the fifth, she stopped thinking about her father.
By the tenth, she stopped thinking at all.
⸻
When Dante finally came down, she was dripping sweat, strands of hair plastered to her face, chest rising and falling like she’d just outrun death.
He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching.
“Feel better?” he asked.
She glared at him. “Slightly less homicidal.”
“Good,” he said. “We’re making progress.”
She pulled off the gloves and threw them at his chest.
He caught them easily.
Christina walked past him, brushing against his shoulder. “Don’t think this changes anything.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
But his voice was softer than before.
And that bothered her more than his silence.That night, she lay awake again, the file still open beside her, pieces of her past rearranged like shards of glass.
Every photo of her father was now stained by doubt.
Every memory had a shadow she hadn’t noticed before.
She opened her phone, typed a message to her mother, then deleted it. She tried again. Deleted that too.
There were no words.
No explanation for what this world was doing to her.
And yet, beneath it all, something was shifting. Deep in her chest, under the grief and confusion and betrayal… was a spark of something dangerous.
Purpose.
She wasn’t just a girl who’d seen too much anymore.
She was the daughter of a man who’d played this game.
And she was still on the board.The next morning, Dante called her into the dining room.
“I need to leave the city for a day or two,” he said. “Business in Boston. I’m taking minimal security.”
She folded her arms. “So I’m just supposed to sit here like a locked-up princess while you go do mafia things?”
He smirked. “Something like that.”
“And what if I say no?”
He leaned in, eyes sharp. “Then we argue. Loudly. And you still don’t leave.”
She scowled.
“But,” he added, “I’m not heartless. While I’m gone, you’ll have access to anything in this penthouse. Books, the gym, the rooftop, even the guest office. Internet access too.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“You stay inside. No calls that aren’t encrypted. And no surprises.”
Christina stared at him. “You’re trusting me with your system?”
“I’m trusting you with your father’s name,” Dante said. “Don’t make me regret it.”
⸻
An hour later, he was gone.
The penthouse felt too quiet without him — which annoyed her more than it should have.
Christina wandered through the rooms, then ended up in the guest office. It was sleek and modern, with a large monitor, a fingerprint scanner, and an encrypted browser already open on the desktop.
Curiosity got the better of her.
She searched: Leonidas Andrianakis – cause of death.
No results beyond the usual obituary.
Then she searched Dante Moretti.
Again — nothing official. Just gossip blogs and vague references. The kind of invisible power only real criminals had.
And finally, almost without thinking, she typed: Giorgos Andrianakis.
Her uncle.
A man she hadn’t seen since she was a teenager.
And there it was.
One result.
A scanned customs log from fifteen years ago, with both their names side by side.
Leonidas Andrianakis — Customs Officer, Dock 14.
Giorgos Andrianakis — Cargo Broker, Clearance Officer, Dock 17.
Her father… and his brother… had worked together.
She leaned back, heart pounding.
Maybe her father hadn’t worked alone.
Maybe the answers didn’t start — or end — with Dante.
Maybe they started in her own family.
- Writer
