Chapter 5 - THE VISITOR FROM CHICAGOMatteo didn't flinch. His hand remained wrapped around Lena’s, his thumb steady against her pulse.
Through the steamy diner windows, two black sedans with tinted windows and out-of-state plates were idling curbside, their hazard lights blinking amber against the slate-gray rain.
A man stepped into the light of the diner.
He was in his late fifties, impeccably tailored in a charcoal wool overcoat that cost more than everything inside The Last Light Diner combined. Silver-streaked hair slicked back, gold-rimmed glasses resting on a sharp nose, and a thin, ironic smile playing across his lips.
Dante Moretti.
The consigliere of the Chicago Marquez family. The man who managed the offshore accounts, greased the palms of federal judges, and hadn't set foot outside a high-rise penthouse in five years.
Dante stopped just inside the doorway, shaking out a black umbrella before folding it and leaning it against the counter. He looked around the shabby diner with an expression of mild, clinical disgust, his eyes lingering on the cracked tiles and the neon menu board.
“Well,” Dante said, his voice carrying a smooth, cultivated Chicago drawl. “I fly two thousand miles across the country, dodging federal surveillance and private investigators, and I find the most feared man in the American underworld sitting in a roadside greasy spoon drinking lukewarm sludge out of a chipped mug.”
Matteo slowly turned his head. He didn't let go of Lena’s hand.
“Dante,” Matteo said, his voice flat. “You look old.”
“And you look domestic,” Dante replied, walking down the center aisle, his expensive leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the floor. He stopped a few feet from booth seven, looking down at Lena with a polite, deferential nod. “Good evening, Mrs. Marquez. You’re looking well. Though I see your uniform has seen better days.”
Lena instinctively pulled Matteo’s denim jacket tighter around her shoulders. “What do you want, Dante? We had an agreement.”
“We did,” Dante sighed, sliding into the booth across from them without being invited. He clasped his hands together on the Formica table. “An agreement that Matteo would take a sabbatical. That he would play the humble baker in upstate New York, or whatever picturesque delusion kept him from answering his phone.” Dante’s eyes flicked back to Matteo. “Unfortunately, the syndicate doesn't care about pastoral retreats, boss.”
Matteo’s expression didn't change, but the air in the diner seemed to drop another ten degrees. “Speak.”
“The Outfit in Chicago is fracturing,” Dante said, his tone dropping its ironic edge, turning sharp and businesslike. “Since you walked away, Victor Rossi has been consolidating power on the North Side. He’s cutting our distribution lines, buying off our captains, and—most importantly—he found the escrow accounts.”
Lena’s breath hitched. “The escrow accounts?”
“The ones we set up three years ago,” Dante confirmed, looking at Lena briefly before returning his gaze to Matteo. “To guarantee your safety, Mrs. Marquez. Rossi knows about them. He knows they’re tied to Matteo’s personal signature, and he knows that if Matteo doesn't sign over the controlling shares of the shipping ports by midnight on Friday, he’s going to release public documents linking your diner—and your new identity—to the Marquez family treasury.”
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the diner.
The rain drummed harder against the roof, a frantic, rising rhythm.
Matteo looked at Dante for a long, unbroken moment. Then, slowly, a cold, dangerous smile touched the corners of his mouth.
“Victor Rossi,” Matteo murmured, as if tasting a particularly fine wine he hadn't had in years. “The boy who used to carry my briefcase.”
“He thinks you’re a ghost, Matteo,” Dante said softly. “He thinks you’ve gone soft because of a waitress in a rust-belt town.”
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Matteo slowly released Lena’s hand. He stood up from the booth, towering over Dante, his shadow falling across the older man like a shroud.
“Tell Victor,” Matteo whispered, his voice smooth as glass and sharp as a razor, “that ghosts don't need briefcases anymore. And by Friday night, I’m going to show him why the dead don't stay buried.”
