Chapter 2: Blood on the Pavement

Elena didn't sleep.

She lay in bed watching shadows crawl across her ceiling, the business card burning a hole in her consciousness from where she'd left it on the kitchen counter. At three in the morning, she gave up, made coffee, and researched Dante Salvatore until her eyes burned.

The internet painted a picture of perfection. I am thirty-four years old. Self-made billionaire who'd built Salvatore Industries from nothing into a tech empire worth twelve billion dollars. Philanthropist. Bachelor. Devastatingly handsome in that sharp-edged way that probably made women forget their own names.

But it was the older articles that caught her attention. The ones from ten years ago, buried beneath the glossy success stories. The ones about his sister.

Isabella Salvatore, 19, Found Dead in Apparent Gang Violence.

Elena's coffee went cold in her hands as she read. Isabella had been a college student, volunteering at a youth center not unlike Elena's own. She'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in crossfire between rival gangs. The case had gone unsolved. No arrests. No justice.

Just another casualty in a war that never ended.

So that was it. Dante Salvatore wasn't interested in her community center out of some abstract sense of charity. He was chasing ghosts. Trying to save his dead sister by saving kids like the ones who'd gotten her killed.

Elena understood that impulse better than she wanted to admit.

She arrived at the center at seven thirty, earlier than usual, and found Sarah already there with coffee and a grim expression.

"Miguel made it through surgery," Sarah said without preamble. "But the police are saying he won't testify against the boys who stabbed him. Too scared."

"Of course he is." Elena took the coffee gratefully. "Testifying means dying. The system doesn't protect witnesses in this neighborhood."

"So they just get away with it."

"They always do."

The words tasted like ash in Elena's mouth. She moved through the morning routine mechanically, unlocking doors, turning on lights, setting up the breakfast program for the kids who wouldn't eat otherwise. By eight forty-five, thirty children had filtered in, and the center hummed with the controlled chaos she'd learned to navigate.

She was helping a seven-year-old with his shoelaces when Marcus Chen arrived, precisely at nine.

But he wasn't alone.

Dante Salvatore walked through the doors of her community center like he owned the building, the block, possibly the entire neighborhood. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Elena's car, his dark hair styled with casual perfection, his presence filling the room in a way that made everyone stop and stare.

Elena felt something cold slide down her spine.

She'd seen his pictures online, but they hadn't prepared her for the reality of him. He was taller than she'd expected, broader through the shoulders, moving with a fluid grace that seemed almost dangerous. But it was his eyes that stopped her breath. Dark, intense, and somehow familiar in a way that made her skin prickle with recognition she couldn't place.

"Miss Moretti." His voice was smooth, controlled, the kind of voice that was used to being obeyed. "Thank you for seeing me."

"You didn't exactly give me a choice." Elena stood, suddenly aware of her secondhand jeans and faded Northwestern t-shirt, the way her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She lifted her chin anyway. "Mr. Salvatore."

"Dante, please." He extended his hand.

Elena hesitated, then shook it. His grip was firm, warm, and sent an unwelcome jolt of electricity up her arm. She pulled back faster than was polite.

"Let's talk in my office."

She led him through the main room, acutely aware of every child's curious stare, every peeling paint chip on the walls, every sign of the center's desperate poverty. Her office was barely bigger than a closet, crammed with filing cabinets and a desk held together with duct tape.

Dante Salvatore stood in the doorway, his expensive suit a jarring contrast to the surroundings, and for a moment something flickered across his face. Pain? Recognition? It was gone before Elena could identify it.

"Please, sit." She gestured to the only other chair in the room.

He sat with economical grace, and Marcus Chen took up position by the door like a very well-dressed guard dog.

"I'll get straight to the point," Dante said. "I want to fund your programs. Fully. Equipment, staff salaries, building repairs, security, whatever you need."

Elena blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Why?"

"Because what you're doing here matters." His eyes held hers, and Elena felt pinned by the intensity of his gaze. "Because these kids deserve better than what this neighborhood is offering them. Because someone should care."

"People do care," Elena said sharply. "We're drowning in people who care. What we need is money and political will and a system that doesn't treat these kids as disposable."

"Then let me provide the money."

"And what do you get out of it?"

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "Does it matter?"

"Yes." Elena leaned forward. "I've learned that when billionaires show up with checkbooks, there's always a catch. So what's yours? Tax write-off? Publicity? Soothing your guilty conscience?"

Marcus Chen made a sound that might have been a warning, but Dante held up one hand, never breaking eye contact with Elena.

"I had a sister," he said quietly. "Isabella. She was nineteen when she was killed in gang violence. She'd been volunteering at a center like this one."

"I know," Elena said. "I looked you up."

"Then you understand why this matters to me."

"I understand that you couldn't save her, so now you want to save everyone else." Elena's voice softened despite herself. "I get it, Mr. Salvatore. I really do. My brother was fifteen when he died in a drive-by five years ago. That's why I opened this place. But throwing money at the problem won't bring them back."

For a long moment, silence stretched between them. Dante's expression had gone carefully blank, but Elena saw the muscle jump in his jaw, the white-knuckled grip on the chair arm.

"No," he said finally. "It won't. But it might keep other sisters and brothers alive. Isn't that worth something?"

Elena wanted to say no. Wanted to throw his offer back in his face because accepting help from someone like him felt like admitting defeat, like acknowledging that she couldn't do this alone.

But she couldn't do this alone. Miguel's blood on the floor yesterday had proven that.

"How much are we talking about?" she asked.

"Five million to start. Annually."

Elena's brain short-circuited. "Five million dollars. Every year."

"Is that enough?"

"That's..." She laughed, the sound edged with hysteria. "That's more than enough. That's insane."

"I can go higher."

"No." Elena stood abruptly, needing to move, to think. "No, I just... I need to understand what you want in return. Nobody gives away that kind of money without expectations."

Dante rose as well, and suddenly the small office felt suffocating. He was close enough that she could smell his cologne, something expensive and subtle that made her head swim.

"I want oversight," he said. "Quarterly reports on how the money's being used. I want to be involved in major decisions about programs and expansion. And I want to visit regularly, see the work firsthand."

"So you want control."

"I want partnership." His voice dropped lower, and Elena felt it resonate in her chest. "I have resources. You have passion and experience. Together, we could actually make a difference here."

Elena studied his face, searching for deception, for the hidden agenda she was sure existed. But all she saw was the same haunted determination she recognized from her own mirror.

"I need time to think about it," she said.

"You have until tomorrow."

"That's not enough time."

"It's all the time I'm giving you." Dante pulled out another business card, this one with different information. "This is my personal number. Call me by noon tomorrow with your answer."

He moved toward the door, and Elena felt the moment slipping away, felt the opportunity and the threat of it simultaneously.

"Mr. Salvatore."

He turned back, one eyebrow raised.

"Why did you really come here? And don't give me the line about your sister. There are hundreds of community centers in Chicago. Why mine?"

Something flickered in his eyes again, that strange recognition that made Elena's pulse quicken.

"Because yesterday, when Miguel was bleeding on your floor, you didn't run. You didn't call for someone else to handle it. You just... stayed." His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "You fought for him. That kind of courage is rare."

Before Elena could respond, he was gone, Marcus Chen following silently in his wake.

She stood alone in her tiny office, holding another business card, feeling like the ground had shifted beneath her feet.

Her phone rang. The hospital. Elena answered with shaking hands.

"Miss Moretti? This is Dr. Patel. I'm calling about Miguel Santos."

"Is he okay?"

"He's stable, but there's a complication. Two men came to the hospital an hour ago, asking questions about him. Security asked them to leave, but..." The doctor's voice dropped. "I've seen this before. They'll be back. And if Miguel testifies or talks to police, he won't be safe here."

Elena's blood turned to ice. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you should prepare for the possibility that Miguel's life is still in danger. The people who did this don't leave loose ends."

The call ended, and Elena stood frozen, pieces clicking together in her mind with horrible clarity.

Miguel wouldn't be safe in the hospital. He wouldn't be safe anywhere in this neighborhood. The gang would find him, finish what they started, and there wasn't a damn thing the system would do to stop it.

Unless.

Elena looked down at the business card in her hand, at Dante Salvatore's personal number.

Five million dollars could buy a lot of things. Security. Protection. Maybe even justice.

But what would it cost her?

Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: The offer expires at noon tomorrow. Choose wisely. There won't be a second chance.