Chapter 2 - The Ghost of the Steel Mills
As Dante pulled Evelyn to her feet, Grant let out a pathetic, breathless laugh. It was the sound of a cornered animal realizing there was no escape.
"You think you’re saving her?" Grant sneered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, trying desperately to salvage a shred of his fractured ego. "Look at her! She’s nothing. She’s a charity case I pulled out of a dying steel town in Indiana. She doesn't know anything about high society, about power, about us!"
Dante slowly rose to his full height, keeping one arm securely around Evelyn’s waist to support her weight. He turned his head just enough to look at Grant over his shoulder.
"A dying steel town," Dante repeated, the words tasting like poison on his tongue. "You mean Miller’s Ridge. The town your father’s corporation poisoned with industrial runoff in 1998, bankrupting every family living there—including the Marshalls."
Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes snapped up to Dante’s face.
Marshall.
That was her maiden name. A name she had buried the day she married Grant Hartwell. A name she thought no one in Chicago remembered.
"How do you..." Evelyn choked out, her voice raw.
Dante turned fully toward her, the harsh penthouse lighting catching the sharp angles of his face. The coldness in his eyes melted away, replaced by a deep, aching history.
"Your father was Thomas Marshall," Dante said quietly, his gaze piercing through her. "He was the chief accountant for Hartwell Enterprises. He found out your husband’s father was embezzling pension funds to build this very realotech empire. Before your father could take the evidence to the federal prosecutor, his car went off a wet bridge on Route 41."
Evelyn’s knees buckled. Dante caught her easily, pulling her against his chest. The room seemed to tilt sideways.
"It wasn't an accident," Evelyn whispered, the dark truth she had suspected since childhood finally locking into place.
"No," Dante confirmed, his voice cold as arctic ice. "It was murder. Executed by the exact same legal and financial team that Grant inherited."
Grant stumbled backward, his face draining of whatever color remained. "You... you’re digging up dead history. That was twenty years ago! Nobody cares about Miller's Ridge anymore!"
"I care," Dante said softly. He signaled with two fingers to Victor and Mason.
The two massive bodyguards moved forward with terrifying efficiency. Victor grabbed Grant by the lapels of his expensive charcoal suit, lifting him off his feet as if he weighed nothing. Grant clawed frantically at Victor’s wrists, gasping for air.
"You’re going to jail, Grant," Dante said, walking past him toward the shattered doorway. "And not a white-collar minimum-security facility where you can play golf. Federal supermax. Maximum security. Solitary confinement. For embezzlement, corporate espionage, and the wrongful death of Thomas Marshall."
"You can't do this!" Grant shrieked, his voice echoing off the luxury glass windows. "I’m Grant Hartwell! I run this city!"
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"You ran a facade," Dante corrected without turning back. He looked down at Evelyn, who was staring in stunned disbelief at the man who had just dismantled her nightmare in less than five minutes.
"Come, Evelyn," Dante said gently, guiding her toward the private elevator that suddenly chimed, its doors sliding open to reveal a descending car bathed in soft blue light. "It’s time to go home."
