“He laughed at everything. Trusted everyone. Thought people were better than they were.”
I studied him.
“You loved him.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
I looked at my tea.
“My mother was like that.”
“Trusting?”
“Hopeful.”
I smiled sadly.
“She always believed people could change.”
Dante was quiet.
Then he said, “Sometimes they can.”
I looked up.
His dark eyes held mine.
For one dangerous second, the kitchen felt too small.
Then I looked away.
***
The next morning, Sofia found me in the garden.
She carried two coffees and a folder.
“I have something for you.”
I frowned.
“What?”
She handed me the folder.
Inside were photographs of Cameron.
At charity events.
At political fundraisers.
At a private dinner.
And in one photograph, standing beside him, was Victor Sloane.
I stared.
“Where did you get these?”
“Public records and event archives.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like men who call women confused when they’re trying to escape.”
My throat tightened.
Sofia sat beside me.
“There’s something strange about Cameron.”
“What?”
She pointed to a date.
“Six years ago, he worked for Northbridge.”
My heart began pounding.
“The foundation?”
She nodded.
“And so did your mother.”
I stared at the photograph.
Then Sofia said quietly, “Nora, I don’t think Cameron met you by accident.”
The garden seemed to go silent.
I looked at her.
“What are you saying?”
A broken heart.
A lost job.
A funeral without a goodbye.
But discovering that the man who once kissed your forehead every morning may have been paid to fall in love with you?
That requires a different kind of strength.
I sat in Dante’s library with Sofia’s photographs spread across the table.
Cameron Hale.
Victor Sloane.
The Northbridge Foundation.
My mother.
Every road seemed to lead back to the same people.
“You’re telling me Cameron targeted me?”
Sofia looked uncomfortable.
“I’m saying his employment history overlaps with your mother’s disappearance. And his first documented contact with you happened shortly after he began working with Sloane.”
I remembered meeting Cameron at a bookstore.
He’d reached for the same copy of Jane Eyre.
We’d laughed.
He’d bought me coffee.
For two years, I’d considered that meeting proof that beautiful accidents happened.
Now I wondered whether he’d even liked the book.
“Can you prove it?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
Dante stood beside the fireplace.
He’d been silent for nearly ten minutes.
Finally, he said, “That’s why we’re not confronting him.”
I looked up.
“We?”
He met my eyes.
“You decide what happens next. But don’t mistake suspicion for evidence.”
I hated that he was right.
***
That afternoon, Gabriel drove me to meet Detective Leah Mercer.
She worked with a state investigative task force and had no professional connection to Senator Hale.
Dante didn’t attend.
I had asked him not to.
For nearly two hours, I described Cameron’s behavior.
The isolation.
The threats disguised as concern.
The way he’d taken my phone during arguments and later insisted I’d misplaced it.
The time he’d told my employer I was having a breakdown.
Detective Mercer listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she said, “I believe you’re frightened. We can document the threats and discuss protective options. But I won’t promise an immediate arrest.”
I nodded.
“I don’t want a promise.”
“What do you want?”
I thought about it.
“I want my life back.”
She closed her notebook.
“Then we’ll start with what we can establish.”
***
When I returned to the estate, Dante was waiting in the garden.
He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the black roses tattooed along his forearms.
He was speaking with an elderly gardener about a damaged fountain.
I stopped.
Something about the scene was absurd.
Chicago’s most feared mafia boss discussing plumbing.
The gardener said something.
Dante frowned.
Then handed him a wrench.
I laughed.
Both men turned.
Dante raised an eyebrow.
“Something amusing?”
“You.”
“That happens rarely.”
“You’re arguing with a fountain.”
“It’s winning.”
I laughed harder.
He watched me with an expression that made my chest feel strange.
Not possessive.
Not hungry.
Almost relieved.
As though seeing me laugh had given him something he hadn’t known he needed.
***
Later, we walked beneath the rose-covered arches.
“Why does Gabriel trust you?” I asked.
Dante glanced at me.
“Because we’ve survived difficult things together.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No. It’s the beginning of one.”
He stopped beside a stone bench.
“Gabriel worked for my father. When my father died, several men tried to divide the organization. Gabriel stayed.”
“And you?”
“I made decisions I can’t undo.”
I studied him.
“Have you killed people?”
His expression didn’t change.
“Yes.”
The honesty frightened me more than a denial would have.
I stepped back.
Dante didn’t follow.
“I’m not asking you to admire my life, Nora.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because you should know who you’re standing beside.”
I looked at him.
“Do you regret it?”
“Some things. Others I regret not preventing.”
I swallowed.
“That’s not exactly comforting.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
For a long moment, we stood apart.
Then he said, “You don’t owe me affection because I helped you.”
I looked up sharply.
He continued.
“You’re safe here whether you like me or not.”
I wanted to believe that.
But believing had become dangerous.
***
That evening, Matteo brought news.
Victor Sloane had left Chicago.
His last public appearance was at a private airport.
But before leaving, he’d visited a nursing facility outside Milwaukee.
The registered visitor’s name was Evelyn Shaw.
My mother’s alias.
I stared at the document.
“She’s there?”
“Maybe,” Matteo said. “The record is several weeks old.”
I looked at Dante.
“Take me.”
He shook his head.
“Not tonight.”
Anger flashed through me.
“You said I could decide.”
“You can. I’m asking you to wait until we confirm the location and arrange a safe visit.”
I folded my arms.
“You’re very good at making orders sound like suggestions.”
He looked at me.
“And you’re very good at assuming every disagreement is a prison door.”
The words hurt.
His expression changed immediately.
“Nora.”
I turned away.
He didn’t touch me.
