Chapter 7: Ghosts of the Past

Elena found the photograph at three in the morning.

She'd been unable to sleep, her mind replaying the gala like a film stuck in a loop. The way Dante's hand had felt against the small of her back. The intensity in his eyes when he'd looked at her across the dance floor. The strange moment when he'd excused himself abruptly, leaving her standing alone among Chicago's elite like she'd suddenly become invisible.

She'd come home restless and angry, angry at herself for caring, for letting him get under her skin. So she'd done what she always did when sleep eluded her: she'd started working. The grant application was due in thirty-six hours, and she still needed to compile the supporting documentation about the center's impact on the community.

That's when she'd pulled out the old file boxes from her closet, searching for the newspaper articles about the neighborhood's gang violence statistics from five years ago. And there, wedged between a stack of yellowed clippings about her brother's death, was a photo she'd forgotten existed.

Her hands trembled as she held it up to the lamp light.

It was from the funeral. She remembered that day in fragments, like shattered glass. The too-bright sunshine. The cheap casket. Her father's stoic silence. But she didn't remember this: a tall teenage boy standing at the edge of the cemetery, partially hidden behind a marble angel statue.

He couldn't have been more than seventeen, maybe eighteen. Dark hair. Expensive suits that looked out of place among the mourners in their thrift store clothes. And his face, even in profile, even shadowed and grainy from the disposable camera quality, was unmistakable.

Dante Salvatore.

Elena's breath came in short gasps. Why would Dante have been at her brother's funeral? They'd never met before. She would have remembered someone like him, someone who radiated wealth and power even as a teenager. And he'd been standing apart from everyone else, not offering condolences, not approaching the family. Just watching.

Just... grieving?

Her laptop was still open on the kitchen table. Elena sat down, her fingers flying across the keyboard with increasing urgency. She typed his name into the search engine, adding keywords: family, tragedy, sister, Chicago, five years ago.

The results loaded slowly, agonizingly. Then the headlines appeared, and Elena's world tilted on its axis.

Tech Heir's Sister Found Dead in Apparent Gang Execution

Salvatore Family Tragedy: Isabella Salvatore, 19, Killed in South Chicago Violence

Billionaire's Daughter Murdered: No Suspects in Custody

Elena clicked on article after article, each one revealing pieces of a story she'd never known. Isabella Salvatore, Dante's younger sister, had been killed five years ago. Not just killed. Murdered. Execution style. Found in an alley three blocks from Elena's community center.

The same week Elena's brother had died.

Her vision blurred as she read the details. Isabella had been volunteering at a youth outreach program, working with at-risk kids despite her father's objections. She'd been passionate about social justice, about giving back to communities that the wealthy typically ignored. And then, one night, she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or maybe, Elena thought with growing horror, she'd been targeted.

The articles mentioned that Isabella had been investigating a human trafficking ring operating through local gangs. She'd been planning to go to the police with evidence. And two days before she could, she was dead.

Elena's brother, Tommy, had died four days after Isabella. Shot in a drive-by that the police had ruled as random gang violence. But Tommy had been trying to leave his gang. He'd confided in Elena that he knew things, dangerous things, about operations that went way beyond street corner drug dealing.

Could they have been killed by the same people?

The thought made Elena's stomach turn. She pushed away from the table, pacing her tiny apartment like a caged animal. This couldn't be a coincidence. Dante shows up at her center, offering money, inserting himself into her life. It was too calculated, too convenient.

Was she some kind of project for him? A way to assuage his guilt? Was he trying to save her because he couldn't save his sister?

Or was it something darker?

Elena's phone buzzed, making her jump. A text message from an unknown number lit up the screen.

You're looking into things you shouldn't. Delete your search history. Now.

Her blood ran cold. She stared at the phone, then at her laptop screen still displaying articles about Isabella Salvatore. Someone was watching her. Monitoring her online activity.

Another text came through.

I'm trying to protect you. Trust me. Please.

This number wasn't unknown after all. Elena recognized it from the business card Marcus had given her. This was Dante's personal cell.

Her fingers shook as she typed back: Did you know? About my brother and your sister? Is that why you came to my center?

The response came immediately.

Not over text. Meet me. There's a 24-hour diner on Madison and Ashland. Come alone.

Elena looked at the clock. Three forty-five in the morning. Every rational part of her brain screamed that this was insane. Meeting a man she barely knew in the middle of the night because he was monitoring her internet searches and sending cryptic warnings. This was how people ended up on true crime podcasts.

But the photograph in her hand told a different story. The photo of a grieving teenage boy at her brother's funeral, a boy who'd grown into a man with secrets carved into his bones.

She needed answers.

Elena grabbed her jacket and keys, but paused at the door. What if this was a mistake? What if Dante wasn't who he appeared to be? What if the danger he'd warned her about wasn't external but came from him?

Her phone buzzed again.

I know you're scared. You should be. But I'm not the one you need to be afraid of. Five years ago, we both lost people we loved to the same monsters. And those monsters are still out there. Still operating. Still destroying lives. I've been hunting them ever since. Your center, the kids you're trying to save, they're all caught in the same web that killed our siblings. So yes, I came to your center because of the connection. But I stayed because you're fighting the same war I am. And you're doing it without armor, without weapons, without any idea how deep the corruption goes. Meet me, Elena. Let me show you the truth.

Elena's hands clenched around her phone. The truth. Finally, someone was offering her the truth about why Tommy had really died, about the forces that had shattered her family and left her picking up pieces for five years.

But the truth came with a price. It always did.

She thought about Miguel in the hospital, about all the kids at her center caught in cycles of violence they couldn't escape. She thought about her brother's smile, the way he'd called her "Lena" and promised he was going to get out, going to make something of himself, going to make her proud.

She thought about Dante's eyes at the gala, the weight of grief and rage she'd seen hiding beneath the polished surface.

Maybe they were both haunted by the same ghosts.

Elena locked her apartment door behind her and headed down the stairs. The street was empty, lit by flickering streetlamps that cast everything in shades of amber and shadow. Her car started on the first try for once, and she took it as a sign.

The drive to the diner took twelve minutes. Twelve minutes to second-guess every decision that had led her to this moment. Twelve minutes to wonder if she was brave or stupid or some combination of both.

The diner glowed like a beacon in the darkness, its neon sign advertising breakfast all day and coffee that never got cold. Elena parked and sat in her car, watching the windows. She could see Dante inside, sitting alone in a corner booth, his back to the wall like a man who'd learned never to leave himself exposed.

He looked up as if he could feel her gaze. Even through the distance and glass, their eyes met.

And Elena knew, with sudden terrifying clarity, that walking through that diner door would change everything. That the simple life she'd been trying to build, the safe boundaries she'd constructed around her grief and purpose, were about to crumble.

Dante stood up. Waiting. The look on his face was equal parts desperation and determination.

Elena's hand hovered over the door handle.

Her phone lit up one more time. A final text.

The people who killed our siblings are planning something big. Something that will destroy hundreds of lives, including the kids at your center. I can't stop them alone. I need your help. But first, you need to understand what you're getting into. What I am. What I've become. Walk away now, and I'll keep funding your center from a distance. But come inside, and there's no going back. You'll know things you can't unknow. You'll be part of this war whether you want to be or not. Choose carefully, Elena. Because I can protect you from a lot of things. But I can't protect you from the truth.

Elena read the message three times. Then she opened her car door and stepped out into the cold night air.

The diner's bell chimed as she pushed through the entrance. Dante's expression shifted, something between relief and regret crossing his features.

"You came," he said quietly.

"I want the truth," Elena replied, sliding into the booth across from him. "All of it. Why were you at my brother's funeral? What really happened to your sister? And what the hell did you mean about not being able to protect me from the truth?"

Dante reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick manila envelope. He set it on the table between them, his hand resting on top like he was afraid to let it go.

"Everything you're about to see is classified. Dangerous. Obtained through methods that would make me a criminal in the eyes of the law." His voice was low, intense. "But it's the truth about who killed our siblings and why. About the trafficking ring that Isabella discovered. About the corruption that goes all the way to the top of Chicago's power structure. About the—"

The diner's windows exploded inward in a shower of glass.