ASHES OF HER SILENCE

CHAPTER 2: THE INTERROGATION

The SUV smelled like leather and gunpowder.

Elena sat in the back seat, flanked by the two men who'd found her in the alley. Scarface drove in silence, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds to check on her. The lean one—she'd heard him called Marco—kept his hand resting casually on the gun at his hip.

They weren't taking chances.

Neither was she.

Elena kept her breathing steady, her posture relaxed but alert. Lena Cross wouldn't be terrified right now. Lena Cross had dealt with dangerous men before. Lena Cross knew how to survive in the shadows.

But Elena Carter—the woman beneath the mask—knew exactly how much danger she was in.

The city blurred past the tinted windows as they drove deeper into Moretti territory. Upscale restaurants gave way to industrial warehouses, then to a gated estate that looked more like a fortress than a home. High walls. Security cameras. Armed guards at every entrance.

This was Dante Moretti's kingdom.

And she was about to meet the king.

The SUV pulled through the gates and stopped in front of a sprawling mansion—modern, cold, designed to intimidate. The kind of place that screamed power and control.

"Out," Scarface ordered.

Elena stepped onto the gravel driveway, her legs steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Marco grabbed her arm—not rough, but firm enough to remind her she wasn't a guest.

They led her through the front entrance, past more guards, down a hallway lined with expensive art that probably cost more than most people made in a lifetime. Everything about this place was a statement: I own this city. Cross me, and you disappear.

Finally, they stopped in front of a heavy wooden door.

Scarface knocked twice, then pushed it open.

The office beyond was exactly what Elena expected—dark wood, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive desk positioned to face the door. But it was the man behind the desk that made her breath catch.

Dante Moretti.

She'd seen his photo in the FBI files. Studied his face, memorized every detail. But nothing had prepared her for the reality of him.

He was younger than she'd expected—mid-thirties, maybe—with sharp features and dark eyes that seemed to see straight through her. He wore a tailored black suit that fit him like armor, and when he looked up from the papers on his desk, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Leave us," Dante said. His voice was low, controlled, the kind of voice that didn't need to be raised to command obedience.

Scarface and Marco hesitated for only a second before stepping out and closing the door behind them.

Elena was alone with the most dangerous man in the city.

Dante leaned back in his chair, studying her with the cold precision of a predator sizing up prey. He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just watched.

It was a test. She knew that. He was waiting to see if she'd break, if she'd fill the silence with nervous chatter or desperate explanations.

Lena Cross wouldn't do that.

So Elena stood perfectly still, meeting his gaze without flinching, and waited.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dante spoke.

"Lena Cross." He said her cover name like he was tasting it, testing its weight. "Information broker. Freelance. No permanent allegiances. Is that right?"

"That's right," Elena said. Her voice was calm, professional. "I deal in information. I don't take sides."

"And yet, here you are." Dante's eyes narrowed slightly. "In my office. After witnessing one of my men execute a traitor. Tell me, Miss Cross—why should I believe you're not working for my enemies?"

"Because if I were, I'd be dead already," Elena said simply. "Your men would have killed me in that alley. Or I'd have run straight to the police. But I didn't. I came to you."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a businesswoman," Elena said. "And I understand how this world works. The man your people killed tonight—I was tracking him for a client. Now he's dead, and my client is going to want answers. But more importantly, I saw something I wasn't supposed to see. That makes me a liability. Unless I become an asset instead."

Dante tilted his head slightly, like a wolf considering whether to kill or keep its prey. "What makes you think you'd be useful to me?"

"I have access to information most people don't," Elena said. "I know who's talking to who. Who's making deals. Who's planning to betray who. In my line of work, information is currency. And right now, I'm offering you a trade—my silence and my services, in exchange for your protection."

It was a good pitch. Believable. The kind of offer a real information broker would make.

But Dante didn't look convinced.

He stood slowly, moving around the desk with the fluid grace of someone who was always in control. He stopped a few feet away from her, close enough that she could see the cold calculation in his eyes.

"You're not afraid," he said quietly.

Elena's pulse spiked, but she kept her expression neutral. "Should I be?"

"Most people are." Dante's gaze swept over her, taking in every detail—her posture, her breathing, the way she held his stare without looking away. "Most people who end up in this office are terrified. They beg. They lie. They promise me anything to stay alive. But you—" He paused, his eyes narrowing. "You're too calm. Too controlled. Like you've been in situations like this before."

Damn.

He was good. Better than she'd expected.

"I have been," Elena said, forcing a small, bitter smile. "You don't survive long in my line of work if you panic every time someone points a gun at you. I've dealt with dangerous men before, Mr. Moretti. I know how to stay useful. And I know how to stay quiet."

Dante studied her for another long moment, his expression unreadable.

Then he stepped back, returning to his desk.

"You'll stay here tonight," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "My men will keep an eye on you. If your story checks out, we'll talk again in the morning. If it doesn't—" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

"Understood," Elena said.

Dante picked up his phone and pressed a button. "Marco. Take Miss Cross to the guest wing. Make sure she's comfortable. And make sure she doesn't leave."

The door opened, and Marco stepped inside.

"This way," he said, gesturing for Elena to follow.

As she turned to leave, Dante's voice stopped her.

"Miss Cross."

She looked back.

His dark eyes locked onto hers, cold and calculating.

"If you're lying to me," he said quietly, "I'll know. And when I do, you won't get a second chance."

Elena held his gaze for one more heartbeat, then nodded.

"I'm not lying," she said.

But they both knew that wasn't entirely true.