27
KASI
The morning sunstreams through the garden windows as I finish my coffee, watching Alaric review the investigator’s report at the other end of the breakfast table. Three days have passed since we found Dante’s files, and the news keeps getting worse.
Of the twenty women in his sick collection, six are confirmed dead. Six more have disappeared without a trace—no forwarding addresses, no contact with family, no digital footprint for the past two years. Sarah Carson and Claire Rodriguez are among the eight confirmed alive, though neither knows how close they came to joining the others.
“The Chicago investigator confirmed Rebecca Martinez,” Alaric says without looking up from the papers. “Car accident four years ago. Single vehicle, late at night, no witnesses.”
“Accident or murder?”
“Police ruled it accidental. But the timing matches when Dante lost interest and moved on to new targets.”
I set down my coffee cup with shaking hands. Rebecca Martinez, a twenty-two-year-old nursing student, was founddead three weeks after Dante’s surveillance photos stopped. The coincidence is too convenient to ignore.
“What about the others?”
“Jennifer Walsh—overdose in Portland. Amy—missing person in Sacramento, never found. Lisa Thompson—house fire in Phoenix, died in her sleep.” His voice is clinical, detached. “All within six months of appearing in his files.”
“What about their families?”
“Benedetto’s people are setting up anonymous trust funds. Educational scholarships for siblings, mortgage payments for parents, and medical bills will be covered. They’ll never know where the money came from.”
“That’s good. This is good. Very good.”
Three days of confirmation calls, background checks, and death certificates. Three days of learning that my ex-fiancé wasn’t just a stalker—he was a serial killer who covered his tracks by making murders look like accidents.
“Sarah Carson is a kindergarten teacher in Buffalo,” I say, reading from my own stack of reports. “Lives alone, no family nearby, volunteers at an animal shelter on weekends. She has no idea how lucky she is to be alive.”
“The anonymous fund will pay off her student loans and cover a down payment on the house she’s been saving for.”
“What about Claire Rodriguez?”
“The one who works at a veterinary clinic in Albany. Recently divorced, struggling with credit card debt from the legal fees.The fund will clear her debts and establish a retirement account.”
I lean back in my chair, processing the strange satisfaction of using Dante’s stolen money to help the women he targeted. It’s not justice—nothing can bring back the ones who died—but it’s something.
“The living ones will never know,” I say.
“Klaus Mueller’s team confirmed for this afternoon,” I tell Alaric over breakfast, breaking the comfortable silence. “The contract revisions should be straightforward.”
“Good. One less thing to worry about.”
He folds the newspaper and reaches for his coffee, and I catch myself staring at his hands. Strong, capable hands that were shaking when he held me in the garden. Hands that have built an empire and burned evidence of weakness in equal measure.
“Kasi?”
I blink, realizing he’s been talking. “Sorry. What?”
“I asked if you wanted to join me for lunch before the meeting. There’s a new Italian place in the city that Tony recommended.”
“Palazzo Bianco?”
“You know it?”
“Marco mentioned it last week. Said the truffle risotto is incredible.” I smile. “I’d love to.”
The drive into Manhattan is pleasant, filled with easy conversation about business and nothing important. Alaric tells me about Klaus’s concerns with the shipping logistics. I share updates on the victim outreach plan we’ve been developing for Dante’s files.
