Chapter 2 - THE THREE KNOCKS THAT SHOULD NEVER HAVE HAPPENED
The first scream came from the servants' wing at exactly 1:13 in the morning.
Dante Moretti was halfway through a phone call when he heard it.
A child's scream.
Then a dog barking with such fury that the windows of his study seemed to tremble.
"Boss?" the man on the phone asked. "You still there?"
Dante was already standing.
"Handle it."
He ended the call, took his gun from the desk, and hurried into the corridor.
In six years, Bruno had never barked like that inside the house.
Not when armed strangers arrived.
Not when men raised their voices.
Not even when a burglar had once slipped over the garden wall.
Whatever had frightened the dog tonight was something different.
Dante reached the servants' staircase and heard small footsteps pounding toward him.
Sophie appeared around the corner, clutching her star-shaped pillow.
Her brown hair was tangled. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Behind her stood Bruno, all sixty-five kilos of him, his enormous body positioned between the child and the dark hallway.
"Sophie?"
The girl ran directly into Dante's legs.
"He came back!"
Dante crouched.
"Who came back?"
"The knocking man!"
Bruno growled.
Dante had heard that sound before, but only when the dog believed someone intended to hurt him.
He looked past Sophie.
The hallway was empty.
Six closed doors lined one wall. At the far end, a narrow window overlooked the rain-soaked garden.
"Where's your mother?"
"Downstairs."
"Did you see the man?"
Sophie shook her head.
"He knocked three times. I told him to go away. But then he said something."
Dante felt an unfamiliar tightness settle around his ribs.
"What did he say?"
The little girl looked up at him.
"He said Bruno wasn't supposed to be here."
Dante stopped breathing for a moment.
"Those exact words?"
She nodded.
"He said the dog belonged to somebody else first."
Bruno pressed closer to her.
Dante glanced toward the empty hallway.
Six years earlier, Bruno had indeed belonged to someone else.
Someone whose name had not been spoken in the Moretti house for years.
"Come with me," Dante said.
He lifted Sophie into his arms.
She weighed almost nothing.
Bruno followed so closely that his shoulder brushed Dante's leg.
At the bottom of the servants' stairs, Elena Cruz appeared carrying a basket of freshly polished silver.
When she saw her daughter in Dante's arms, the basket slipped.
Silverware scattered across the marble.
"Señor Moretti!"
Dante studied her expression.
It wasn't the embarrassment of a maid caught neglecting her duties.
It was terror.
"Someone was outside your daughter's bedroom."
Elena went pale.
"No. That isn't possible."
"She heard him speak."
Elena crossed herself.
"Sophie, what did I tell you about making up stories?"
"I'm not making it up, Mama."
"Enough."
The sharpness in Elena's voice surprised Dante.
He had known her as a quiet, patient woman who rarely raised her eyes during conversations.
Now her hands were shaking.
Dante shifted Sophie against his shoulder.
"Don't scold her for being frightened."
Elena looked at him.
Something passed across her face.
Guilt.
Gratitude.
And then fear again.
"Please, Mr. Moretti. Let me take my daughter downstairs. I will make sure she stays in our room."
"That won't be necessary."
"Sir—"
"Nobody is sleeping in the servants' wing until I understand what's happening."
He turned toward the security office.
"Come with me."
Elena hesitated.
For one strange moment, Dante thought she might refuse.
Then Sophie whispered into his collar.
"Mama knows why he knocks."
Elena closed her eyes.
And Dante knew the night had just become much more dangerous.
Carmine Russo, Dante's head of security, stood when they entered the surveillance room.
At forty-eight, Carmine had served the Moretti family for twenty-three years. He was one of the few men Dante trusted without reservation.
"Problem, boss?"
"Pull up the servants' hallway cameras."
"What time?"
"Start at twelve thirty."
Carmine typed quickly.
Six monitors flickered.
The corridor appeared on the center screen.
Empty.
At 12:58, a housekeeper crossed the frame carrying folded towels.
At 1:04, the lights dimmed.
At 1:07, the footage froze.
At 1:16, it resumed.
Dante stared.
"Play it again."
Carmine did.
Seven minutes were missing.
"Technical failure?" Carmine asked.
"Have we had any others?"
"Not that I know of."
Dante looked at Elena.
Her eyes were fixed on the monitor.
"Seven minutes," Dante said quietly. "Someone removed seven minutes of footage."
Carmine checked the recording log.
His face hardened.
"Not a malfunction. Somebody accessed the system remotely."
"From outside?"
"No."
Carmine swallowed.
"From inside the estate."
For a moment, the only sound was the low humming of the computers.
Then Bruno moved.
The dog had been sitting beside Sophie.
Suddenly, he stood and approached the monitor showing the hallway.
He pressed his nose against the screen.
A low whine escaped his throat.
Sophie slipped from Dante's arms.
"He's sad again."
Carmine frowned.
"Sad?"
"He was sad in my room, too."
Dante turned toward her.
"What happened in your room?"
"He smelled my pillow. Then he cried."
Elena grabbed her daughter's hand.
"Sophie, that's enough."
But Dante had heard something else.
Six years earlier, when his younger brother Matteo disappeared, Bruno had spent three days lying beside Matteo's bedroom door.
The dog had refused food.
He had searched every corner of the estate.
Then, eventually, he had stopped searching.
Dante had never understood whether dogs could grieve.
Tonight, watching Bruno stare at the surveillance monitor, he wondered whether a dog could recognize a ghost.
"Carmine," he said, "check every external entrance. Nobody leaves without my approval."
"Understood."
"And find out who touched those recordings."
Dante turned toward Elena.
"You and I need to talk."
But before Elena could answer, Sophie tugged his sleeve.
"Mr. Dante?"
"Yes?"
"The man knows your name."
Dante crouched again.
"What did he call me?"
She whispered something so softly that he almost missed it.
"He said Uncle Dante."
The room went completely silent.
Dante sent Carmine to investigate and brought Elena and Sophie into the small family sitting room.
Bruno followed.
Outside, rain lashed the terrace.
Inside, the fireplace had burned down to glowing embers.
Sophie climbed onto the couch, pulled her knees beneath her pajama shirt, and tucked the star pillow against her chest.
Dante took a chair opposite her.
"Tell me exactly what you heard."
Elena stood behind the couch.
"Sir, she's five years old. Children misunderstand—"
"Elena."
His tone stopped her.
"I am not accusing your daughter of anything."
"Then please stop questioning her."
"Someone entered a secured section of my home, erased surveillance footage, and frightened your child. That isn't a misunderstanding."
Elena looked away.
Dante studied the exhaustion around her eyes.
He had never noticed it before.
Not really.
He had seen her carrying laundry, polishing furniture, arranging flowers.
He had never wondered what she worried about when the work was finished.
"Sit down," he said more gently.
Elena obeyed.
Sophie looked from her mother to Dante.
"Am I in trouble?"
"No, sweetheart."
"Are you going to take Bruno back?"
The question struck him harder than it should have.
"No. Bruno stays with you."
Her shoulders relaxed.
"Forever?"
Dante almost smiled.
"We can discuss the contract tomorrow."
Sophie gave him a small, uncertain smile.
Then she looked down at her pillow.
"The knocking started after the man came to the garden."
Dante leaned forward.
"What man?"
"The one with the shiny ring."
Elena's head snapped toward her daughter.
"Sophie!"
"He stood by the fountain when Mama was hanging the tablecloths. He asked if I still had my star."
Dante looked at the pillow.
"Your star?"
Sophie nodded.
"He said it was important."
"What kind of ring?"
"A lion."
A cold sensation spread through Dante's stomach.
Only one man in the family wore a gold lion signet ring.
His uncle.
Vittorio Moretti.
The man who had helped raise Dante after his father died.
The man overseeing tomorrow night's charity gala.
The man who had spent thirty years telling him that family loyalty was more important than blood.
"Was it Uncle Vittorio?" Dante asked.
Elena shot to her feet.
"Please!"
Sophie flinched.
Elena pressed both hands over her mouth.
Dante stood slowly.
"Elena, what aren't you telling me?"
Tears gathered in her eyes.
"I have worked here three years. I have never stolen anything. I have never spoken about your family. I have done everything your mother asked."
"My mother?"
Elena's breathing became uneven.
"She promised we would be safe."
Dante felt the room tilt.
His mother, Teresa Moretti, had personally hired Elena three winters earlier.
He remembered thinking it strange.
His mother rarely involved herself in household staffing.
But when Dante had asked, Teresa simply said the woman needed a place to raise her daughter.
Now Elena was telling him there had been a promise.
A promise of protection.
"Safe from whom?" he asked.
Elena shook her head.
"Please don't make me say it in front of Sophie."
Dante glanced at the girl.
She was watching them with enormous brown eyes.
Then she spoke.
"Mama, can I show him?"
Elena turned sharply.
"No."
"But Daddy said—"
Elena made a strangled sound.
Dante froze.
"Daddy said what?"
Sophie pulled the star pillow into her lap.
With one small finger, she worked at the loose seam along its edge.
Elena reached for her.
"Sophie, stop!"
But the child was already holding something.
A photograph.
Old.
Folded twice.
Softened by years of being hidden against fabric.
Sophie offered it to Dante.
He unfolded it.
And for the first time in years, the man feared throughout New York's criminal underworld felt his hands begin to tremble.
The photograph showed two young men standing outside the Moretti stables.
One was Dante, younger and smiling.
The other was his brother Matteo.
Matteo had one arm around Dante's shoulders.
At their feet sat a black Cane Corso puppy.
Bruno.
Dante stared at the picture.
He remembered that afternoon.
He remembered Matteo laughing when the puppy refused to obey anyone but him.
And he remembered the funeral held five years later.
A funeral with an empty coffin.
"Where did you get this?" Dante whispered.
Sophie pointed at the photograph.
"That's Daddy."
Elena began crying.
Dante slowly lifted his eyes.
"Elena?"
She shook her head.
"I wanted to tell you."
Dante stared at the child in planet pajamas.
His dead brother's daughter.
His own niece.
Sophie looked confused by his expression.
Then she said something that turned every drop of blood in Dante's body cold.
"Mr. Dante, why does everybody say my daddy is dead?"
May you like
She hugged her pillow.
"Because he was outside my door tonight."
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