Chapter 2 - THE BOY IN THE CHARCOAL SUIT“The east wing,” Dante repeated.
Something in Renzo’s face changed.
It was small. Barely visible. But six years in prison had trained Dante to notice small things. A tightened jaw meant fear. A glance toward a door meant someone was hiding behind it. Silence meant the truth was usually worse than the lie.
“Why the east wing?” Dante asked.
“It was yours.”
“Was?”
Renzo said nothing.
The Mercedes turned through iron gates crowned with the Marchetti crest.
The estate appeared through the rain like an old memory that had learned how to hate him.
Three stories of limestone and black shutters rose above manicured grounds. Security vehicles lined the circular drive. Men Dante recognized stood beneath umbrellas beside men he did not. Six years had changed the family. New soldiers. New loyalties. New eyes measuring him.
Every one of them knew he had been imprisoned for murder.
Every one of them was wondering whether the fallen prince had returned to take a throne.
Dante stepped out of the Mercedes.
The conversations stopped.
He could almost feel the weight of thirty men deciding whether to bow.
Renzo moved beside him.
Then a voice came from the entrance.
“Well.”
Dante looked up.
Vincenzo Marchetti stood beneath the marble portico.
His older brother had changed.
The boyishly handsome face Dante remembered had sharpened. His black suit fit perfectly. A diamond watch gleamed beneath one cuff. Behind him stood two armed men who had once answered to Vittorio.
Vincenzo opened his arms.
“The prodigal brother.”
Dante walked toward him.
They stopped three feet apart.
Vincenzo smiled.
“I would hug you, but prison changes a man. I don’t know what customs you picked up.”
Dante’s expression did not move.
“Still making jokes when you’re nervous?”
The smile disappeared.
For a moment, they were boys again. Dante fourteen. Vincenzo seventeen. Standing behind the stables after Vincenzo had broken Dante’s nose because Vittorio had announced that Dante would someday lead the family.
Then Isabella appeared inside the doorway.
“Enough.”
Her voice had not changed.
Dante looked at the woman who had raised him.
Isabella Marchetti was sixty-two now, but age had only refined her elegance. Her dark hair was streaked silver and pinned neatly behind her head. Pearls rested at her throat. She wore black though no funeral had yet occurred.
She descended the steps.
For the first time since leaving prison, something unsettled Dante more than anger.
Isabella’s eyes were wet.
She touched his cheek.
“My boy.”
Dante remained still.
“You came home thinner,” she whispered.
“Prison rarely serves dessert.”
Pain moved across her face.
Behind him, Renzo lowered his eyes.
Isabella pulled Dante into an embrace.
He allowed it for two seconds.
Then stepped away.
“Where is my father?”
Her hand fell.
“In his study.”
“Waiting for me?”
“No.”
Dante looked toward the mansion.
“Then he can start.”
He walked inside.
Nothing had changed and everything had.
The marble floors still reflected the enormous chandelier. The grandfather clock still ticked beside the staircase. His mother’s portrait still hung above the landing.
But beneath it—
Dante stopped.
A second portrait had been added.
Vincenzo.
Painted in a dark suit beside Vittorio.
Like the heir.
Dante stared at it.
Vincenzo came up behind him.
“Father commissioned it three years ago.”
“How touching.”
“He needed someone beside him.”
Dante turned.
“He had someone.”
“You were unavailable.”
The silence between them became dangerous.
Isabella stepped forward.
“Your father has been ill for months. This is not the day for old wounds.”
Dante looked at her.
“Then they should have healed them before I arrived.”
He climbed the stairs toward Vittorio’s study.
Two guards moved in front of the door.
Dante recognized neither.
“Move.”
They looked toward Vincenzo.
That told Dante everything.
Vincenzo sighed.
“Let him through.”
The guards stepped aside.
Dante opened the door.
His father sat beside the window.
For a terrible moment, Dante almost did not recognize him.
Vittorio Marchetti had once filled rooms simply by entering them. Now a blanket covered his legs. Oxygen tubing rested beneath his nose. His once-powerful hands had become thin and spotted with age.
But his eyes remained hard.
Gray-green.
The same as Dante’s.
“Close the door,” Vittorio said.
Dante did.
Neither spoke.
Six years occupied the space between them.
Finally Vittorio lifted one trembling hand.
“Come closer.”
Dante did not.
“Why?”
“Because I am your father.”
“You remembered.”
Vittorio shut his eyes.
“I deserve that.”
“You deserve more.”
“I know.”
Dante laughed once.
“No. You don’t.”
Vittorio looked at him.
“I failed you.”
“That almost sounds sincere.”
“I believed evidence placed before me by men I trusted.”
“You believed strangers before your son.”
“I believed my house was secure.”
“And I paid for your arrogance.”
Vittorio’s breathing grew heavier.
Dante saw the oxygen machine beside him and hated that a part of him still wanted to cross the room.
Still wanted to help.
He crushed the instinct.
“Did Vincenzo frame me?”
Vittorio looked toward the rain.
“I no longer know.”
“That’s a coward’s answer.”
“I have spent six years asking questions.”
“And?”
“People vanished.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed.
“Who?”
“Accountants. Drivers. Two detectives. A man who worked security at Esposito’s nightclub.”
“Convenient.”
“Yes.”
“Who benefited?”
Vittorio looked at him.
“You already know what you believe.”
“I want to know what you believe.”
Before Vittorio could answer, the study door opened.
Isabella entered.
“The car is here.”
Vittorio frowned. “What car?”
“For the chapel.”
Dante turned.
“What chapel?”
Vincenzo appeared behind her.
“Our remembrance service.”
“For whom?”
A strange silence followed.
Then Isabella said, “Carlo Esposito.”
Dante stared at them.
“You’re honoring the man I was convicted of murdering?”
Vincenzo leaned against the doorframe.
“His death nearly started a war. Father agreed to host the sixth-year memorial as part of the peace.”
Dante looked at Vittorio.
“And you expect me to attend?”
Vittorio nodded slowly.
“You need to be seen.”
“As what?”
“My son.”
Vincenzo’s smile returned.
“Or my successor.”
Dante looked at him.
“Enjoy saying that while you still can.”
Two hours later, nearly three hundred people gathered beneath the vaulted ceiling of Saint Michael’s Chapel.
Chicago’s political elite sat beside union bosses, businessmen, judges, and men whose names never appeared in court documents even when their decisions ended lives.
Rain hammered stained glass.
Dante entered beside Vittorio.
The room turned.
Whispers moved like electricity.
“That’s him.”
“Marchetti’s son.”
“He got out this morning.”
“Vincenzo wasn’t expecting this.”
Dante ignored them.
Until he saw Elena Rossi.
The world stopped.
She stood ten rows ahead.
Black dress.
Dark hair pinned back.
Beautiful in the exact way he had spent six years trying not to remember.
Her face went white when she saw him.
Dante stopped walking.
Elena’s lips parted.
No sound came.
Something broke open inside him.
Rage.
Relief.
Pain.
Love.
He took one step toward her.
Then a child tugged at her hand.
Dante looked down.
A five-year-old boy in a tiny charcoal suit stood beside Elena.
Dark hair.
Serious expression.
And gray-green eyes.
Dante forgot how to breathe.
The boy looked directly at him.
There was something unsettlingly familiar in the shape of his face.
Elena immediately pulled the child closer.
Dante stared at her.
“Elena.”
She whispered, “Not here.”
His pulse began pounding.
“Who is he?”
Her eyes filled with terror.
Before she could answer, the chapel doors opened again.
A procession entered carrying a large framed photograph of Carlo Esposito.
The little boy beside Elena suddenly brightened.
He pointed at the dead Don’s portrait.
“That’s Daddy.”
Dante’s blood turned cold.
Every conversation around them stopped.
The boy smiled innocently.
“Mommy says Daddy is in heaven.”
Dante looked at Elena.
Then at the photograph.
Then back at the child who had his eyes.
And for the first time since prison, Dante Marchetti felt afraid.
May you like
Not because the boy might belong to a dead enemy.
Because every instinct in his body screamed that he did not.
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