Chapter 5 - THE EMBEZZLER’S DEBT
“They aren’t here to kill him,” Dante whispered, his body shielding ours beneath the broad oak table. “They’re here to take him into state custody. Once he’s inside an institutional ward under a court seal, an accidental overdose of sedatives closes the file forever.”
Leo was trembling violently, his humming escalating into a high, thin wail that tore at my heart. “The blue coat... the gate is open... make the noise stop, Em. Make it stop.”
“I’ve got you, Leo,” I whispered into his hair, wrapping my arms tighter around his narrow shoulders. “I’m right here. Nobody is taking you anywhere.”
Dante holstered his weapon, his expression shifting from battlefield commander to cold, bureaucratic assassin. He pulled his encrypted phone from his vest pocket, dialing a three-digit speed code.
“Marcus,” Dante said into the receiver, his voice chillingly composed. “Deploy the convoy to Lakeview Manor. Block the county access roads with our cement mixers from the Cicero plant. Tell the drivers they had steering failures. Nobody in a municipal vehicle gets within half a mile of this estate.”
He paused, listening to the static on the other end.
“And bring Sal out of the basement,” Dante added. “Put him in the back of my town car. Intact.”
He hung up, looked down at me, and offered his hand. I took it, allowing him to pull me up from the floor. He didn't let go of my fingers immediately; his thumb brushed against the back of my hand, a gesture so fleeting and protective it made my breath hitch.
“We have twenty minutes before county sheriffs figure out how to route around my trucks,” Dante said. “We take Leo out through the staff greenhouse.”
“Where can we possibly take him?” I asked, my voice cracking under the weight of the impossible. “Judge Moretti controls the district circuit. If we run with him, it’s felony kidnapping of a state ward. They’ll revoke my rights permanently.”
“We take him to my home,” Dante replied without hesitation. “The Morettis have spent nine years trying to search my house for Clara’s private journals. Even the FBI needs a signed federal warrant from Washington to cross my gate. A county circuit judge has no jurisdiction on my property.”
Ten minutes later, we were moving through the damp, earth-scented gloom of the facility's disused greenhouse. Leo walked between us, clutching his paper triangles in one hand and the sleeve of my cardigan in the other. Dante carried my brother’s heavy winter duffel bag in one hand, his other hand hovering near his waistline.
At the edge of the service road, Tommy was waiting with an unmarked black utility van, engine idling in the rain.
When Tommy saw me emerge with Dante and a trembling teenage boy, his jaw dropped. “Boss? The road’s closed, but county cruisers are stacking up at the intersection.”
“Get in the front, Tommy,” Dante said flatly. “Drive through the drainage access behind the golf course.”
In the cargo area of the van, strapped to a reinforced steel jump seat with heavy zip-ties around his wrists, sat Salvatore Genovese.
Sal looked up, his face gray with terror, his expensive linen shirt soaked in sweat. But when his eyes landed on Leo, all the defiance drained out of him. His mouth fell open, his lips trembling violently.
“My God,” Sal breathed, his voice cracking like dry wood. “The boy. He... he remembers?”
“He remembers your ring, Sal,” I said, stepping into the van and pulling Leo behind me onto the bench seat. “He remembers you dropping it by the swings while Clara was dying.”
Sal dropped his head into his bound hands, a ragged sob tearing from his chest. “I didn't plant the bomb, Emily! I swear on the Holy Mother, I didn't know the package was under the engine block! Vincent told me it was an electronic tracker—he said he just wanted to catch Clara before she crossed the state line with the baby!”
“You knew,” Dante said, his voice dropping into the quiet register that signaled death. He climbed into the van and slid the heavy side door shut, plunging us into shadow lit only by the red dashboard indicators. “You knew Vincent Moretti didn't track people with three pounds of military-grade C-4.”
“Vincent had my son!” Sal cried out, looking up with tears streaming down his creased, weathered cheeks. “My boy Anthony was nineteen, running courier routes for the docks. Vincent caught him skim-cutting heroin off the South Side shipments. He told me Anthony would be fed to the industrial shredder unless I left Clara’s gate unlocked that morning!”
The confession hung in the cramped space of the van, vile and pathetic.
“You traded my wife and child for your junkie son,” Dante whispered.
“And Anthony died of an overdose three months later anyway!” Sal screamed, choking on his own tears. “It was all for nothing! For nine years I’ve been living in hell, Dante! Why do you think I stole the three million? I wasn't running to Europe! I was sending it to the offshore trust Clara set up for Emily's brother!”
I froze, staring at the old mob captain in total disbelief. “What did you say?”
Sal looked at me, his eyes bloodshot and pleading. “The Zurich account isn't mine, Emily. Clara opened it three days before she died under her mother’s maiden name—Viterbo. She knew Vincent was coming for her. She made me promise that if anything happened to her, the boy would be funded for life.”
He looked toward Dante, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “I didn't take the money to hurt you, Dante. Vincent found the account yesterday. He threatened to seize it through the probate court. I moved the funds to your primary commercial account this morning to force you to look at the paperwork before Moretti’s lawyers could freeze the assets!”
A sharp gasp escaped my lips. Sal hadn't embezzled to rob Dante. He had tripped the internal alarms on purpose, knowing I was the only person in the empire who checked the daily variance reports down to the penny.
He knew I would bring the file to Dante.
Dante stared at his old captain, the silence stretching so long that the steady rumble of the van’s tires over the gravel felt deafening.
Slowly, Dante reached into his boot, drew a small folding knife, and sliced through Sal’s zip-ties with a single upward flick.
“You still owe me a life, Salvatore,” Dante said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “And you’re going to pay it back by testifying before the federal grand jury tomorrow morning.”
Sal rubbed his raw wrists, shaking his head in horror. “Vincent will kill me before I reach the courthouse steps. He owns half the federal marshals in northern Illinois.”
“He doesn't own the ones guarding my basement,” Dante replied.
The van lurched as Tommy accelerated onto the highway. Leo suddenly leaned forward, reaching out and gently touching Sal’s sleeve with a paper triangle.
“The green coat had a red feather in the pocket,” Leo said softly to Sal. “You cried when you picked up the ring. You said sorry three times.”
Sal buried his face in his hands and wept openly, unable to look the boy in the eye.
Just then, Tommy called back through the partition screen, his voice tight with panic. “Boss! We’ve got a problem. The security feed from your estate just pinged my console.”
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Dante leaned forward. “What is it?”
“It’s Vincent Moretti,” Tommy said, swallowing hard. “He isn't at the courthouse, and he isn't waiting at the docks. He’s sitting in your living room with six men. He let himself in using Clara’s old master key.”
