Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Brooklyn
The silence in the tunnel grew so heavy it felt physical. Dante stood motionless, the small silver lighter glinting in his palm like a piece of burning coal. His gaze didn't leave my face, searching for every micro-expression, every telltale tremor.
"Miguel has been dead for three years," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "The police... the precinct in Brooklyn... they gave me his wedding band and his wallet. I identified the body, Dante. I buried him."
"Bodies can be misidentified, Clara. Or swapped," Dante said, his tone dangerously low. He turned back toward the iron door, running his fingers along the heavy bolts. "My family has enemies, but ghosts don't come back through brick walls unless someone lets them in. And someone who knows the layout of this estate is helping them."
He grabbed my arm—not with cruelty, but with an iron grip that demanded compliance—and guided Sophie and me back through the narrow passage into the warmth of the mansion.
Back in the hallway, Teresa Moretti was waiting.
Dante’s mother stood by the carved walnut panel in her immaculate emerald silk robe, her silver hair coiled into a tight bun, her sharp eyes taking in the soot on Dante's shirt, the trembling dog, and the pale terror in my face.
"Put the child to bed, Clara," Teresa said, her voice smooth as glass, hiding a lifetime of iron control. "Dante, come with me to the study. Now."
"Mother, someone has an active key to the old transit lines," Dante snapped.
"I am well aware of what happens in my own house," Teresa replied, her eyes narrowing as she looked at me. "And Clara has cleaning to finish. We will discuss estate security after the morning meeting."
There was an unspoken command in Teresa's words—a wall I couldn't climb over. I scooped Sophie into my arms, burying my face in her hair to hide the tears stinging my eyes. I carried her back to the cottage through the damp night air, Bruno trotting faithfully beside us like a shadow carved out of midnight.
I tucked Sophie into bed, leaving the bedside lamp on and the door cracked an inch so Bruno could lie across the threshold. She fell asleep almost immediately, exhausted by the terror of the night, her small hand clutching her star pillow.
I didn't sleep.
I sat in the dark kitchen of the cottage, staring at the kitchen table. Miguel’s lighter. If Miguel was alive, if he hadn't died in that alley behind the bakery in Brooklyn, then everything I had built over the last three years—every sacrifice, every humiliation, every hour spent scrubbing floors for the people who terrified the city—was built on a lie.
And Teresa Moretti knew.
Why else would she have offered me this cottage three days after the funeral?
The thought hit me with the force of a physical blow. Teresa hadn't hired me out of charity. She had hired me to keep me close. To watch me. Or perhaps... to protect me from whatever Miguel had become.
At 4:00 AM, a soft knock sounded at the cottage door. Not three heavy raps against a glass window, but a polite, deliberate knuckle tap on the wood.
I opened it to find Dante standing on the porch, a thick manila folder in his hand. He had changed into a dark turtleneck and wool coat, looking every bit the ruthless syndicate boss the newspapers whispered about.
"Get your coat," Dante said quietly.
"Where are we going?"
May you like
"Brooklyn," he said. "To the precinct where your husband's case was closed."
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