Chapter 3 - The Photograph's Dark Secret
“What do you know about this watch?” Emily demanded, refusing to take his hand.
Dante didn't answer immediately. He glanced at the two unconscious men bleeding on her bedroom floor, then back to the open window.
“I know that if we stay here another three minutes, the men waiting at the bottom of the hill will burn this building to the ground with your roommates inside,” he stated.
That got her moving.
Emily scrambled to her feet, shoving the heavy silver watch deep into her apron pocket. She bypassed Dante, grabbing her worn denim jacket from the back of a chair.
“My roommates—”
“Are safe. My driver intercepted them at the taverna and paid them to stay out all night,” Dante said, finally grabbing her arm. His grip was firm, entirely uncompromising. “We are leaving. Now.”
He pulled her down the narrow, winding staircase of the apartment building. The Santorini night air, usually thick with the scent of jasmine, smelled faintly of exhaust and danger.
They reached the black Mercedes. The driver already had the rear door open. Dante shoved her inside and slid in right behind her.
“Drive,” Dante ordered in Greek.
The car surged forward, tires screeching against the ancient cobblestones.
Emily pressed herself against the far door, her chest heaving. The reality of the violence she had just witnessed clashed violently with the quiet, handsome man sitting inches away from her.
“Who were those men?” she asked, her voice cracking.
“Men who work for my uncle, Vincenzo Moretti,” Dante said, staring out the tinted window. “They have been hunting for that silver watch for fifteen years.”
“It’s just a watch! It belonged to my father!”
Dante turned to face her. The shadows of the passing streetlights played across his sharp jawline.
“Your father was Arthur Hart, Emily. He wasn't just a CPA in Ohio. He was the chief forensic accountant for the Moretti syndicate.”
The words hit her like a physical blow.
“You’re lying,” she breathed, shaking her head. “My dad was a normal man. He coached my soccer team. He died in a car crash.”
“He died because he found two hundred million dollars missing from the syndicate’s offshore accounts,” Dante corrected ruthlessly. “He found out my uncle was stealing from the family. When Vincenzo realized your father knew, the car crash was arranged.”
Tears blurred Emily’s vision. Her entire life—her father’s sudden death, her mother’s constant paranoia, the struggle for money—was built on a mob hit.
“Why do they want the watch?” she whispered.
“Because your father was brilliant,” Dante said, his voice softening just a fraction. “He didn't just find the missing money. He hid the routing numbers. Give me the watch, Emily.”
“No!” She covered her pocket defensively.
“They will kill you for it. They almost did tonight.”
“And what will you do to me for it?” she challenged, her chin trembling but raised high.
Dante stared at her, an unreadable, intense heat in his dark eyes. He slowly reached across the leather seat. He didn't grab the watch. He gently took her trembling hand.
“I came to Santorini to find you before they did,” he said softly. “I came to protect you.”
He pressed his thumb against the release latch on the top of the silver watch she clutched.
With a soft click, the back casing of the antique timepiece popped open.
Emily gasped.
It wasn't a solid back. It was a hidden compartment. But there were no routing numbers inside. There was no microfilm.
Tucked perfectly into the circular silver casing was a tiny, faded photograph.
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It was a picture of a much younger Dante Moretti, holding a suppressed handgun.
And standing directly beside him, looking terrified and clutching a bloody briefcase, was Emily’s mother.
