“Recognition that if Dante Moretti is alive, previous agreements about inheritance and territory may be…fluid,” Boris replies. “Your wife inherited his assets under the assumption of death. If he lives, those assets return to him.”
“And if those assets include territories you want access to?” I ask.
“Then we negotiate with the rightful owner, not the widow who may have no legal claim.”
The logic is brutal but sound. If Dante is alive, my inheritance becomes invalid. The shell companies, the financial networks, the territorial agreements—all of it reverts to him.
“There’s another possibility,” Dimitri adds quietly. “That someone is impersonating a dead man to destabilize family relationships. Create confusion about succession, cause internal fighting while outside forces move in to take advantage.”
“Someone like who?” Alaric demands.
“Someone with access to family information. Someone who knows Dante’s habits, his appearance, his mannerisms well enough to fool casual observers.”
The implication sends ice through my veins. An inside job. Someone close to the family, someone we trust, is orchestrating an elaborate deception using Dante’s identity.
“You have suspects?” I ask.
“We have theories. But theories require investigation, and investigation requires cooperation between our organizations.”
“What kind of cooperation?”
“Joint intelligence sharing. Coordinated surveillance. Access to each other’s information networks.” Boris leans back in his chair. “Partnership, Mrs. Moretti. Something your husband has been reluctant to consider.”
The offer is tempting and terrifying in equal measure. The Russians have resources we lack—surveillance networks in cities where we have limited presence, contacts in law enforcement agencies that don’t cooperate with Italian-American families, and technical capabilities that could track someone trying to disappear.
But partnering with them means acknowledging their legitimacy, giving them a foothold in our operations that could be impossible to remove later.
“We need time to consider your proposal,” Alaric says carefully.
“Of course. But do not take too long.” Dimitri gathers the photographs back into his folder. “If Dante Moretti is alive, he will surface eventually. When he does, we want to be prepared to deal with him appropriately.”
“And if he’s dead?”
“Then someone is playing a very dangerous game with very dangerous people. That person will need to be found and eliminated before they cause more problems.”
The meeting ends with handshakes that feel more like threats, formal pleasantries that mask genuine hostility. As the Russians file out, I catch Dimitri staring at me with an expression I can’t read.
“Mrs. Moretti,” he says softly as he passes my chair. “Be careful who you trust. Family members are not always what they seem.”
After the conference room empties, Alaric and I sit in silence, processing what we’ve learned. The photographs remain on the table between us, evidence of possibilities neither of us wants to consider.
“Do you think it’s real?” I ask finally. “The sightings?”
“I think someone wants us to believe they’re real.”
“Someone close to the family.”
“Has to be. The locations, the timing, the witnesses—it’s too coordinated to be random.”
“Marco’s still missing.”
“Three days without contact. His security detail lost him in Portland, the same city where one of these sightings occurred.”
The coincidence feels ominous. Marco disappears in Portland, and Dante is allegedly spotted in Portland. Either my cousin-in-law is in serious trouble, or he’s involved in something we don’t understand yet.
“What do we do?”
“We find Marco. We investigate these sightings. And we figure out who’s trying to convince us that a dead man is walking around the West Coast.”
