Chapter 4 - The Bloodstained Chef's Coat
The photograph burned in Emily’s hand.
“My mother,” Emily choked out, her lungs seizing. “You knew my mother.”
Dante looked away, a muscle feathering in his jaw. The cool, impenetrable mafia boss suddenly looked profoundly weary.
“That photograph was taken the night your father died,” Dante said, his voice stripped of all emotion. “I was twenty years old. A newly initiated soldier. My uncle Vincenzo sent me to your house in Ohio to finish the job. I was supposed to kill your mother and you.”
Emily recoiled, throwing herself against the car door, batting his hand away as if it were made of fire.
“You came to kill us?!” she shrieked, the panic making her vision go black at the edges.
“But I didn't,” Dante snapped, turning back to her, his eyes burning with an intense, fierce desperation. “I walked into that house, Emily. You were six years old, sleeping on the couch. Your mother was holding that briefcase, begging for your life.”
He reached out, cornering her, refusing to let her look away.
“I betrayed my uncle that night. I took the briefcase, gave your mother all the cash I had on me, and told her to run. I lied to Vincenzo. I told him the house was empty and you were gone.”
Emily stared at the photograph. The terror in her mother’s eyes was real. But the way Dante stood in the picture—he was positioned slightly in front of her mother, shielding her from the camera’s flash.
“Then why are you here now?” Emily demanded, wiping furious tears from her cheeks.
“Because Vincenzo finally realized I lied,” Dante said grimly. “He found out your mother was alive in Ohio. And he found out you were in Greece.”
The car slammed to a halt.
Emily looked out the window. They weren't at a hotel. They were at a secluded, private dock on the dark side of the island. A sleek, high-speed luxury boat idled in the black water.
“We have to get off the island,” Dante ordered, pushing the car door open.
He grabbed her hand, dragging her toward the dock.
As they stepped onto the wooden planks, Emily noticed a crumpled, white piece of fabric lying near the edge of the water.
She pulled away from Dante and walked toward it.
It was a chef’s coat.
Embroidered on the breast pocket was the logo of Bella Vista, the restaurant where she worked.
Emily’s stomach plummeted. She recognized the red stitching. It belonged to Marco, the bartender who had complained about table seven just hours ago.
She dropped to her knees.
The back of the white coat was soaked in fresh, dark blood.
“Marco,” Emily whispered, a wave of nauseating guilt washing over her. “They killed Marco.”
Dante crouched beside her, his expression grim. “He must have seen them following you from the restaurant. He tried to stop them. He was collateral damage.”
“He had a family,” she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “Because of me. Because of this stupid watch!”
Dante didn't offer empty comforts. He reached into the bloody pocket of Marco’s coat.
He pulled out a crumpled, blood-stained bar napkin.
“He didn't just try to stop them, Emily,” Dante said softly. “He left a message.”
He unfolded the napkin and handed it to her.
May you like
Written in frantic, smeared black ink were five words that made Emily’s heart stop completely.
They have your mother. Athens.
