Sal's expression shifted. Realization. He'd said too much. "Nothing. Forget I—"
I moved fast, closing the distance, pressing my gun to his temple. "What about Elena Marchetti?"
"Jesus, Dante—"
"Answer the fucking question."
"She was—" He swallowed hard. "She was Lorenzo's wife. Julietta's mother. He had her killed fifteen years ago. Staged it as heart failure. I wasn't involved, but I knew about it. Everyone in Lorenzo's inner circle knew."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"Why?" My voice was barely above a whisper.
"She wanted out. Wanted to take Julietta and disappear. Lorenzo couldn't allow that—couldn't let anyone think he was weak enough to lose control of his own family." Sal's eyes met mine. "So he eliminated the problem. Just like he's been trying to eliminate Julietta."
"Does anyone else know this?"
"About Elena? The old guard. The ones who were there fifteen years ago. But most of them are dead now. It's ancient history."
Not to Julietta. Not to the woman who'd never known her mother. Not to my wife, who I'd been protecting from this truth because I thought she wasn't ready to carry it.
I'd been wrong.
"Please," Sal said quietly. "I have a daughter. She's nineteen. She doesn't know what I do. Doesn't know any of this. If you kill me, can you at least—"
"No."
I pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening in the small space. Sal's body slumped forward, blood spreading across the cheap folding table, his eyes still open, still surprised that I'd actually done it.
One less threat to Julietta.
One less man who knew the truth about Elena.
One step closer to keeping her safe.
Vince appeared in the doorway. "Clean?"
"Clean." I stepped over Sal's body. "Burn it. Make sure there's nothing left to find."
By the time I returned to the compound, dawn was breaking over Chicago. The city looked almost peaceful from this height—all glass and steel and the promise of another day where people went about their lives not knowing what monsters moved beneath the surface.
Julietta was still asleep when I checked our bedroom. I stood in the doorway, watching her breathe, her auburn hair spread across the pillow like fire.
I should tell her about Elena.
The thought had been circling since Sal's confession. She deserved to know. Deserved to understand the full scope of Lorenzo's cruelty. Deserved to make her own choices about what to do with that information.
But every time I thought about saying the words—Your father murdered your mother—I saw the way it would break her. The way it would shatter the fragile trust we'd built. The way she'd look at me and realize I'd known from the beginning and said nothing.
I'd been protecting her. That's what I told myself. Protecting her from a truth that would destroy her.
But standing there, watching her sleep, I knew the real reason I hadn't told her.
Because telling her would mean losing her.
She'd see me as complicit. As another man who'd decided what she could handle, what she deserved to know, what truth she was strong enough to carry. She'd see me as no different from Lorenzo—another powerful man treating her like property instead of a person.
