Chapter 6 - echoes of the past
Dante's heart drummed against his ribs.
The intruder had worn a silver serpent ring. But Sophia was talking about someone singing *before* the gunfire, right outside her lower-level window.
"Did you see his face, sweetheart?" Dante asked, keeping his voice gentle despite the rage surging through his blood.
Sophia shook her head. "It was dark. But he smelled like mints. Like the little white candies in the gold box."
Dante went completely rigid.
Carmela had suffered from chronic anxiety during their final year together. She kept imported Italian peppermint candies in an antique gold tin on her bedside table. Only three people knew about those mints: Dante, Carmela, and Carmela’s estranged younger brother, Julian Rossi.
Julian had disappeared three days after Carmela's funeral, abandoning his share of the Rossi shipping business. Rumors claimed he had fled to Europe in grief.
"Rosa," Dante said, rising to his full height. "Get your bags. You and Sophia are moving upstairs."
Rosa blinked in shock. "Upstairs? To the family quarters?"
"Nobody enters that wing without passing my personal detail," Dante said coldly. "Until I find out why my dead wife's life is wrapping around your daughter, you do not leave my sight."
Twenty minutes later, Rosa and Sophia were installed in the guest suite directly across from Dante’s master bedroom. The suite was five times the size of their staff quarters, with silk drapes, a plush king bed, and private security stationed outside the double doors.
Once Sophia was asleep beneath the heavy duvet, Dante walked out onto the second-floor balcony overlooking the estate’s historic conservatory.
The glass dome gleamed under the Chicago moonlight. The structure had been abandoned since Carmela’s death; she had spent hours cultivating rare orchids inside.
Dante pulled his coat tight against the autumn chill and took the service elevator down to the conservatory entrance.
The iron doors were chained, but the padlock had been picked and hung loosely from the latch.
Dante pushed the iron door open. The air inside was humid and thick with the scent of damp earth, decaying leaves—and peppermint.
Dante clicked on his penlight, sweeping the beam across the overgrown glass house.
On a rusted iron table near the center fountain sat a thermos of coffee, a pack of matches, and an unlit cigarette. Beside them lay an open leather-bound folder.
Dante approached with his weapon drawn. He shined the light on the papers.
They were not blueprints of the estate's security wiring. They were copies of medical charts from Northwestern Memorial Hospital dated eighteen months ago.
May you like
At the top of the chart was Carmela Falcone’s name.
And scrawled across the bottom in red pen was a handwritten note: *The toxicology report was altered. Carmela did not die in the car. She was dead before the engine started.*
