Chapter 3: THE FIRST CRACK IN MY DISGUISE

The following Monday, Dante called me into his private office.

I nearly dropped my toolbox.

His office occupied the second floor of the garage, overlooking the work area through a wall of glass.

There were leather chairs, framed photographs of classic cars, and a large oak desk.

Behind it sat a man who could make entire rooms fall silent with a glance.

“Close the door, Eli.”

I obeyed.

“Sit.”

“I’d rather stand, sir.”

One eyebrow lifted.

“You’re not in trouble.”

That didn’t make me feel better.

Dante opened a folder.

“Your employment records are unusually thin.”

My heart stopped.

“Is there a problem?”

“No previous employer. No references. No permanent address listed before Chicago.”

“I moved around.”

“Why?”

“Personal reasons.”

He leaned back.

“You’re a good mechanic. Maybe the best I’ve hired in years.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’re hiding something.”

I stared at the carpet.

“Everybody’s hiding something, Mr. Moretti.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“That’s true.”

He closed the folder.

“Are you running from the police?”

“No.”

“Did you steal from someone?”

“No.”

“Did you hurt anyone?”

“No, sir.”

“Then whatever you’re running from is your business.”

I looked up.

He continued.

“Unless it puts my people in danger.”

For the first time, I wondered whether Dante Moretti might actually have rules.

Not laws.

Not necessarily kindness.

But rules.

“Understood,” I whispered.

He slid an envelope across the desk.

“Your bonus for fixing the Mustang.”

Inside was five thousand dollars.

I stared at it.

“Sir, I can’t accept this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too much.”

“That car belonged to my father.”

His voice softened.

“He bought it when he came home from Vietnam. Worked two jobs to keep it running.”

I looked at him.

Dante rarely spoke about his family.

“He taught me that a man’s worth isn’t measured by the suit he wears,” Dante continued. “It’s measured by what he does when nobody’s watching.”

My throat tightened.

Michael used to say something similar.

“Your father sounds like a good man.”

“He was.”

For a moment, Dante looked less like Chicago’s feared crime boss and more like a son remembering someone he missed.

Then he stood.

“Keep the money, Eli.”

I rose.

As I reached for the envelope, my sleeve caught on the corner of his desk.

The fabric pulled back.

Exposing a thin silver bracelet around my wrist.

Michael’s bracelet.

Dante’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s unusual.”

I quickly covered it.

“It was my brother’s.”

He said nothing.

But when I reached the door, he spoke again.

“Eli?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Marcus Bellamy asked about you.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“What did he say?”

“He wanted your full name.”

My hands went cold.

“Did you tell him?”

Dante looked straight at me.

“No.”

I could barely speak.

“Why?”

His answer was quiet.

“Because I wanted to know why he was asking.”

That night, I returned to my tiny apartment and found the door slightly open.

Inside, every drawer had been emptied.

My mattress was overturned.

My clothes lay scattered across the floor.

On the kitchen table sat a single white envelope.

Inside was a photograph.

Me.

As Elena Russo.

Standing beside Marcus Bellamy at our engagement party.

Across the bottom, someone had written:

YOU CAN CUT YOUR HAIR, ELENA. YOU CAN’T CUT YOURSELF OUT OF THIS FAMILY.

And beneath it:

THREE DAYS.