3

Marco raised an eyebrow. "You sound confident about a woman you haven't seen in twelve years."

"Elena Russo is many things, brother, but predictable isn't one of them. Except in this, she exhausts every option before admitting defeat." A ghost of a smile touched Dante's lips. "It's what I always admired about her."

"And what you're counting on now." Marco's expression grew serious. "Lucia says she's been distracted at work, losing weight. Castellano's men are following her everywhere."

"Not for much longer." Dante's voice hardened. "Is everything prepared for tomorrow night?"

Marco nodded. "The auction is set. Castellano's operation runs clockwise; two other 'commodities' will be presented before Elena. Our people are in a position. Bids are arranged to drive up the price."

"And Castellano himself?"

"Will attend, as expected, when merchandise is premium." Marco hesitated. "Are you sure this is the wisest approach? We could simply eliminate the debt."

"No." The single word carried the weight of years of planning. "Elena needs to understand exactly what kind of world she's in now. What kind of man I've become." Dante's eyes grew distant. "She made her choice twelve years ago. Tomorrow night, I make mine."

Marco studied his brother's face, seeing the obsession that had quietly burned there since they were teenagers. "Just remember, Dante, she's not the girl you knew. People change."

"Not where it matters." Dante stood, buttoning his suit jacket. "I have a meeting with Judge Harmon in thirty minutes. Keep me updated on Elena's movements."

After Dante departed, Marco lingered, looking at the surveillance photos spread discreetly across the table. Elena Russo at her museum, at her father's funeral, entering her house with slumped shoulders. He picked up one image of Elena as a teenager, laughing beside a younger Dante, their hands intertwined.

Marco slipped the old photo into his pocket rather than returning it to the file. Some ghosts were better laid to rest, even if his brother couldn't see it yet.

The address book had been exactly where Elena remembered, taped to the underside of the loose floorboard in her mother's old closet. The leather was cracked with age, the pages yellowed, but the elegant handwriting remained clear.

She had opened it only once before, on her eighteenth birthday, hoping for answers about the woman who had walked away without a backward glance when Elena was just seven. What she found instead were cryptic entries, codes rather than explanations. Tonight, she wasn't looking for answers about the past; she needed help for the future.

One entry stood out: Ezra - for emergencies only. Below it, a phone number with a Chicago area code.

Whoever Ezra was, her mother had underlined the entry three times. If this didn't qualify as an emergency, nothing did.

Elena's finger hovered over the call button, doubt creeping in. What if this number led nowhere? What if this mysterious Ezra refused to help, or worse, had been part of whatever had driven her mother away?

Her phone buzzed again with another text: Your presence is expected, Miss Russo. Transportation has been arranged.

Through her living room window, she could see a black sedan idling at the curb, a driver in a dark suit standing beside it.

Decision time.

Elena took a deep breath and pressed call on Ezra's number, stepping away from the windows.

One ring. Two. Three.

"This number is no longer in service," an automated voice informed her. "Please check the number and try again."

Dead end. Of course it was. Her mother had disappeared sixteen years ago, so why would her emergency contact still be valid?

Elena ended the call, staring at the black sedan outside. Whatever "options" Castellano wanted to discuss, they wouldn't involve an extension or a reasonable payment plan. Men like him didn't operate that way.

Her phone rang, startling her so badly she nearly dropped it. Unknown number.

"Hello?" she answered cautiously.

"Elena Russo?" A woman's voice, cool and professional.

"Yes, who is this?"

"My name is irrelevant. What matters is that you called Ezra's number."

Elena's heart pounded. "Yes, I"

"That line has been monitored for sixteen years, Miss Russo. May I ask why you're calling now?"

Sixteen years. Since her mother left.

"I'm in trouble," Elena said simply. "Financial trouble with Victor Castellano. My father"

"Antonio Russo is dead," the woman interrupted. "We're aware. What exactly is your situation with Castellano?"

Elena explained quickly, the words tumbling out as she watched the driver by the sedan check his watch.

The woman was silent for a long moment after Elena finished. "You understand that calling this number places you on certain... radars."

"I don't understand anything," Elena said, frustration bleeding through. "I just need help."

"You won't find it from us." The woman's voice softened slightly. "But I can offer advice. Go to the meeting tonight. Hear Castellano's offer. Whatever he proposes, request twenty-four hours to consider. During that time, if an opportunity presents itself for... alternative arrangements, take it."

"What does that mean?" Elena demanded.

"It means your mother had powerful friends, Miss Russo. And dangerous enemies. The fact that you possess her address book suggests you may be more like her than you realize."

The line went dead before Elena could respond.

She stared at the phone, then at the sedan still waiting outside. The mysterious caller had suggested she attend the meeting, but had also implied something would happen within the next day. An "opportunity" or "alternative arrangement."

It wasn't much, but it was more hope than she'd had five minutes ago.

Elena grabbed her coat and purse, tucking the address book securely inside. Whatever game she had unwittingly entered, she was beginning to suspect the rules had been written long before her father's debts.

As she approached the sedan, the driver opened the rear door with practiced deference.

"Miss Russo," he said with a nod. "Mr. Castellano is looking forward to your company."

Elena slid into the backseat, her mind racing. Twenty-four hours. She just needed to survive the next twenty-four hours.

The car pulled away from the curb, carrying her toward Carmina's Restaurant and the man who currently held her future in his hands.

In the shadows across the street, a figure watched the sedan depart, then spoke quietly into a phone.

"She's on the move. Headed to Castellano as expected."

Dante's voice came through, cold and certain. "Good. Everything proceeds as planned."

"And if Castellano accelerates the timeline?"

"He won't. He enjoys the game too much." A pause. "But if he tries to harm her tonight, kill him."

The call ended, and the watcher disappeared into the darkness, following the sedan at a discreet distance.