Chapter 12 - Ghosts of the Past
The black yacht drifted lazily just outside Italian territorial waters, flying no flag and broadcasting no transponder signal. Through the high-powered binoculars, Clara could make out a lone figure standing on the foredeck, dressed in a crisp white linen suit that looked absurdly out of place amid the violent history buried between them.
It was a man everyone in the underworld had buried three years ago.
"Dante Marino," Clara whispered, the name tasting like ash on her tongue. The older brother of Isabella Marino, presumed dead after a warehouse explosion in Chicago that Gabriel’s father had supposedly orchestrated.
"The prodigal son returns," Gabriel said, his hand sliding instinctively toward the custom Sig Sauer he kept hidden beneath the console inside the villa. "Salvatore was just the distraction. Dante was the architect."
The satellite phone buzzed again. An incoming video transmission. Clara hit accept, and the screen flickered to life, projecting a live feed straight from the yacht’s bridge.
Dante Marino’s scarred, cynical face filled the screen. He was swirling a glass of amber whiskey, smiling with a row of unnaturally white teeth.
“Did you really think a few federal indictments and a cute little digital firewall could wipe out a twenty-year dynasty, Clara?” Dante’s voice crackled through the speaker, dripping with condescension. “You built a brilliant cage, little secretary. But you forgot to check who held the master key to the foundation.”
Gabriel stepped into the camera frame, pushing Clara gently behind him as his broad shoulders blocked the lens. His voice was a lethal, quiet growl. "If you're breathing air right now, Dante, it's because I missed you in Chicago. What do you want?"
“I want what’s mine,” Dante laughed, leaning closer to his camera. “Forty percent of the shipping ports, all offshore accounts restored under Marino control, and… oh, let’s say, the lovely Ms. Bennett delivered to my yacht by sunset. Otherwise, that physical master ledger goes straight to the international press—and every cartel boss from Bogotá to Moscow learns exactly who sold them out.”
The screen went black.
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Clara looked up at Gabriel, her eyes burning with fierce resolution. "He's bluffing about the cartel bosses. If he leaks the physical ledger, his own family’s dirty laundry gets aired too."
"Dante doesn't care about his family," Gabriel replied coldly, his jaw tight as he picked up his car keys. "He cares about revenge. Pack your bag, Clara. We're going yachting."
