Chapter 1 - The Detective's RevelationDetective Maria Santos tapped a manicured nail against the glossy surface of the second photograph. The harsh fluorescent light of the Cook County interrogation room buzzed overhead, mirroring the erratic thumping of my heart.
"Look closely, Isabella," Santos murmured, sliding the picture an inch closer across the steel table.
My eyes locked onto the glossy print. It was a still frame captured from a traffic camera across the street from the Valente estate alley—one of the few exterior angles not tied to the estate's private network. In the grainy, rain-slicked frame, a figure in a dark trench coat was slipping away from the side of the dumpster just three minutes before I took out my trash. The face was partially obscured by a heavy hood, but a distinct silver ring glinted on the index finger under the amber streetlamp.
"Whose ring is that?" I whispered, my voice trembling as the gravity of the frame settled over me.
"That," Santos said, leaning back with a sharp, calculating smile, "belongs to Dante Moretti, Adrian Valente's most trusted right-hand man. But here is the kicker: according to the estate logs, Dante was supposed to be inside the secure wing with Adrian during that entire half-hour window."
My breath caught in my throat. If Dante had been near the dumpster right before I found Emma, and the cameras had been disabled from the inside security room, it meant Karen Mitchell wasn't acting alone. She was part of a coordinated inside job. And Adrian Valente—the terrifying, ruthless mafia boss who had slapped me across the face and thrown me into a freezing cell—was hunting the wrong enemy.
"Why are you showing me this, Detective?" I asked, gripping the edge of the metal table until my knuckles turned white. "If Adrian sees this, he'll kill Moretti—or worse, he'll realize how badly he miscalculated and bury me deeper so no one ever uncovers his family's humiliation."
Santos smirked, sliding a manila folder closed with a crisp slap. "Because, Isabella, I don't work for the Valentes. And neither does the person who paid bail for you five minutes ago."
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Before I could process her words, the heavy metal door swung open. A towering figure in a tailored charcoal suit stepped into the room. It wasn't a guard, and it certainly wasn't Adrian. It was a man with sharp, predatory emerald eyes and a scar curving cleanly along his jawline—Julian Vance, Adrian Valente’s oldest, most vicious rival in the Chicago syndicate.
"Get your coat, Isabella," Julian smiled, a chillingly polite expression that didn't reach his eyes. "We have a mutual friend to destroy."
