Chapter 3 - THE SEALED LETTERWe ran down the hallway together, Dante drawing a sleek subcompact pistol from his waistband in a fraction of a second.
We burst into the master bedroom suite. One of the private pediatricians was cowering against the wall, a overturned tray of surgical needles and medical vials clattering across the hardwood floor. Marcus stood in front of Tommy and Lily, holding a heavy crystal vase above his head, his eyes wild with defensive terror.
“Get away from him!” Marcus screamed at the doctor. “Don't touch him with those needles!”
“Put the vase down, kid,” Marco said from the doorway, his hand hovering over his holster. “He’s trying to take the boy’s blood sample for a DNA panel. Boss’s orders.”
“No!” I shouted, throwing myself between Marcus and Marco. “No needles! Tommy is terrified of doctors! He watched his mother die in a hospital room!”
“Eleanor, stand down,” Dante commanded, stepping into the room, his voice calm but firm. “The DNA panel is non-negotiable. I need to know if the boy carries my blood.”
“Why?!” I turned on him, tears of anger spilling over my eyelashes. “So you can turn him into another soldier for your mob?! So you can train him to kill men at Pier 14?! He’s five years old, Dante! He doesn't care about your bloodline! He cares about having bread that isn't moldy and a blanket that doesn't smell like river water!”
Tommy crept out from behind Marcus, his tiny shoes squeaking against the polished floor. He ignored the doctor, ignored Marco, and walked straight toward Dante. He stopped two feet away from the mob boss, looking up at the pistol still held in Dante’s right hand.
Dante looked down at the child. Slowly, deliberately, he clicked the safety back on and slid the weapon into his holster behind his back.
Tommy reached into the front pocket of his oversized overalls. He pulled out a small, crumpled yellow envelope, sealed with red candle wax. The paper was old, worn, and stained with dried salt water.
“Ruth said...” Tommy whispered, his little voice trembling, “Ruth said if the big man with the gray eyes ever found us... I had to give him this. She said it was his birthday present.”
Dante stopped breathing.
He knelt down on the hardwood floor, his expensive trousers pressing against the spilled medical fluid, bringing his eyes level with the five-year-old boy. He reached out with a trembling hand and took the yellow envelope from Tommy’s small fingers.
On the front of the envelope, written in the shaky, elegant cursive of Ruth Foster, were three words:
To my son, Dante.
I stared at the letter in utter disbelief. “Son?”
Dante broke the red wax seal with his thumb. His hands, which had signed death warrants for fifty men, shook violently as he unfolded the single sheet of yellowed notebook paper inside.
I stepped beside him, reading over his shoulder in the dim morning light:
Dante,
If you are reading this, it means Eleanor has failed to keep you away from my children, or you have finally proven yourself worthy of finding them.
Thirty years ago, when your father beat you and threw you onto the streets at twelve, I took you into my shelter. I fed you, I bandaged your ribs, and I taught you that power without protection is just cowardice. But your father found you, dragged you back into the Calvetti bloodline, and turned you into the monster you are today.
I knew you would look for me one day. I also knew your uncle, Vittorio Calvetti, was using Pier 14 to run a child trafficking network behind your back, using your forged signature to fund his coup against you.
Tommy is not your son, Dante. He is Vittorio’s grandson—the son of the woman Vittorio murdered to cover up his tracks at Pier 14. I rescued Tommy from the docks five years ago.
I left him in Eleanor’s care because I knew if you ever saw his eyes—the eyes of your mother’s bloodline—you would burn the city to protect him.
Clean your house, my boy. Protect Eleanor. She is the only truth left in your corrupt world.
Love, Ruth.
A suffocating silence descended upon the bedroom.
Dante sat back on his heels, holding the letter. His gray eyes, usually so cold and unyielding, were filled with a terrifying, apocalyptic flame.
Slowly, he turned his head to look at Marco, who was standing at the doorway.
“Marco,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a register so low and quiet it made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
“Yes, Boss?” Marco asked nervously.
“Where is my uncle Vittorio right now?”
“He’s... he’s at the annual Commission meeting at the Drake Hotel, Boss,” Marco answered. “He’s hosting the East Coast delegates.”
Dante stood up slowly. He reached down, gently patted Tommy’s dark curls, and then looked at me.
“Miss Foster,” Dante said softly.
May you like
“Yes?” I whispered, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Your resignation from Calvetti Tower is denied,” Dante said, pulling his heavy overcoat back over his shoulders. “Get dressed. You’re coming to the Drake Hotel. It’s time to show my uncle what happens when someone uses my name to hurt children.”
