Chapter 1 - The Man in the Empty Chair
Josephine slammed her palm against the marble table and whispered, “Get out of his chair.”
Chicago’s most feared crime boss, Dante Moretti, lifted the crystal glass that had belonged to her husband and noticed a silver wedding ring lying beneath it.
Three tiny letters had been scratched inside the band.
J. M. A.
Dante’s expression changed.
Josephine’s husband had not died the way everyone believed.
The dining room went silent enough for Josephine to hear the small click of Dante Moretti’s watch against the crystal glass.
No one in that room should have been able to frighten her anymore.
Grief had already done its worst.
Eight months earlier, Josephine Miller had stood beneath a black umbrella beside a closed coffin while a priest spoke about eternal rest. Her husband, Andrew Miller, had supposedly died when his car went through a barrier on Lake Shore Drive and burned before emergency crews could reach him.
There had been no body she was permitted to see.
The coroner had explained that the remains were too badly damaged.
Andrew’s watch had been recovered.
His wedding ring had supposedly been recovered.
His dental records had supposedly confirmed the rest.
Josephine had believed all of it because the alternative had seemed impossible.
Now Dante Moretti sat in Andrew’s chair.
And he was holding a ring Josephine had never seen before.
“That isn’t Andrew’s,” she said.
Dante looked at the ring again.
“No?”
“My husband wore platinum.”
“This is platinum.”
“I meant that wasn’t the engraving.”
Josephine reached for it.
Dante closed his fingers.
Two men in black suits stood behind him near the doorway. Neither moved, but Josephine suddenly became painfully aware of how many people in the room were avoiding Dante’s eyes.
The dinner had been organized by one of Andrew’s former business partners as a charitable remembrance in his name. Bankers, developers, attorneys, surgeons, aldermen and their wives sat beneath crystal chandeliers pretending not to listen.
They were all listening.
Josephine stared at Dante.
“Give it to me.”
He held her gaze for another second.
Then he placed the ring in her palm.
Josephine examined the inside.
J. M. A.
Her initials were Josephine Marie Miller.
Andrew’s middle name had been James.
For one irrational second she wondered whether the letters had been meant to represent them both.
Then she noticed something else.
There was a faint reddish stain in one of the grooves.
Old blood.
She looked up.
“Where did you get this?”
Dante took a slow sip of scotch.
“The same place your husband died.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Josephine gripped the edge of the table.
“You were there?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“I had people there.”
A woman farther down the table dropped a fork.
Dante didn’t glance at her.
Josephine lowered her voice.
“Who are you?”
That finally earned something close to amusement.
The man to Dante’s left shifted slightly.
Josephine recognized him then.
Not from television.
Television stations almost never said Dante Moretti’s name without words like alleged, reputed or suspected.
But she had seen photographs online.
Dante Moretti.
Thirty-nine.
Owner of restaurants, construction companies, nightclubs and a logistics corporation worth hundreds of millions.
According to federal prosecutors, he was also the quiet center of a criminal organization that controlled pieces of Chicago no businessman should have been able to control.
Josephine swallowed.
“You’re Moretti.”
Dante set the glass down.
“I was wondering how long that would take.”
A nervous murmur passed through the guests.
Josephine should have been afraid.
Instead anger rose through her.
She had spent eight months waking at three in the morning reaching toward the empty side of a bed.
She had packed Andrew’s suits into garment bags and then unpacked them again because she couldn’t stand the empty closet.
She had listened to people tell her she was still young.
As if thirty-two meant grief was temporary.
As if a husband could be replaced because she had time.
And now this stranger was sitting in Andrew’s chair, drinking his scotch and speaking in riddles.
Josephine leaned closer.
“If you know something about my husband, say it.”
“I know several things.”
“Then start.”
Dante studied her face.
“Did Andrew ever tell you about Cicero?”
“No.”
“River Forest?”
“No.”
“An accountant named Leonard Vale?”
“No.”
Dante nodded once, almost as if her answers confirmed something.
Josephine’s pulse quickened.
“What?”
“You knew very little about your husband.”
The sentence struck harder than an insult.
“I knew him for nine years.”
“You knew the version he gave you.”
Josephine’s chair scraped backward.
Dante’s guards tensed.
“So that’s what this is?” she asked. “You came here to insult a widow?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because someone tried to kill me three nights ago.”
Josephine froze.
Dante continued quietly.
“The shooter had information only six people possessed.”
“What does that have to do with Andrew?”
“Five of those people are sitting in this room.”
Josephine looked around.
Suddenly every face seemed different.
The attorney wiping his mouth.
The developer staring too hard at his plate.
Andrew’s old friend Marcus Bell.
The charity director.
The former judge.
“And the sixth?” Josephine asked.
Dante’s gaze returned to her.
“Your husband.”
Her stomach tightened.
“That’s impossible.”
“I agree.”
“He’s dead.”
“That’s where we disagree.”
Josephine laughed once.
It sounded wrong.
“If this is some sick joke—”
“I don’t make jokes about men who owe me nine million dollars.”
Several guests abruptly stopped pretending not to listen.
Josephine blinked.
“Nine million?”
Dante reached inside his jacket.
One guard stepped forward, blocking the view from the rest of the table.
Dante removed a photograph.
He slid it across the marble.
Josephine looked down.
It showed Andrew standing outside a warehouse.
The photograph was timestamped.
Six weeks after his funeral.
Josephine stopped breathing.
The image wasn’t blurry.
It wasn’t distant.
Andrew’s face was turned almost directly toward the camera.
Same dark hair.
Same narrow nose.
Same small scar above his eyebrow from a college hockey accident.
And on his left hand—
His wedding ring.
Josephine touched the photograph with shaking fingers.
“No.”
“I had the same reaction.”
“No.”
“The metadata was checked.”
“This can be fabricated.”
“Yes.”
“Then it was.”
Dante leaned back.
“That’s why I didn’t come to your house.”
Josephine forced herself to look at him.
“What do you mean?”
“If I wanted you to believe me, I could have brought twenty photographs.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because photographs can lie.”
The way he said it made her colder.
“But people,” he continued, “usually lie worse.”
Josephine looked around the dining room again.
Suddenly she understood.
Dante had not chosen the public dinner by accident.
He wanted witnesses.
More importantly, he wanted reactions.
“You’re watching them.”
Dante’s mouth barely moved.
“You’re smarter than your husband said.”
Josephine’s head snapped toward him.
“My husband talked about me?”
Dante realized his mistake a fraction too late.
Josephine saw it.
It was the first crack in his control.
“When?”
He said nothing.
“You said my husband talked about me.”
Dante lifted his glass.
Josephine grabbed his wrist.
A shocked gasp spread through the room.
Both guards moved.
Dante raised two fingers.
They stopped.
Josephine’s hand remained around his tattooed wrist.
“When did Andrew talk about me?”
Dante’s eyes dropped briefly to her hand, then returned to her face.
“Josephine.”
“Answer me.”
“It won’t help you.”
“Try me.”
Dante’s voice lowered.
“Three months after you buried him.”
The room disappeared.
There was only that sentence.
Three months after you buried him.
Josephine released Dante.
She stood too quickly.
The marble beneath her seemed unstable.
She caught the table.
Dante rose.
She hated that he reached toward her.
She hated more that part of her wanted something solid to hold.
She moved away.
“You spoke to him?”
“Yes.”
“Face to face?”
Dante paused.
“Yes.”
Josephine slapped him.
The sound echoed beneath the chandeliers.
Half the guests flinched.
Dante did not.
His cheek reddened slowly.
One of the guards whispered, “Boss—”
Dante lifted one hand.
Josephine’s voice cracked.
“You knew he was alive for five months.”
“I knew a man using Andrew’s face was alive.”
“What does that mean?”
“I needed proof.”
“You had proof enough to speak to him.”
“I had enough proof to know somebody wanted me to believe he was Andrew Miller.”
Josephine stared.
For the first time, fear entered through the anger.
“What are you saying?”
Dante glanced around the room.
“I’m saying we should stop talking here.”
“No.”
“Josephine—”
“No more riddles. No more games.”
Dante looked past her.
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
That made it worse.
He was looking at Marcus Bell.
Andrew’s closest friend.
Marcus had risen from his seat.
His face had gone gray.
He was backing toward a side door.
Dante’s guard immediately moved.
“Mr. Bell,” Dante called.
Marcus ran.
Chairs crashed.
Guests screamed.
Dante’s men were already after him.
Josephine remained frozen.
A moment later something metallic hit the marble floor beneath Marcus’s abandoned chair.
Josephine stepped closer.
It was a phone.
The screen was still lit.
A message had just arrived.
Only six words appeared.
SHE KNOWS. GET ANDREW OUT NOW.
Josephine read it twice.
Then the side door opened again.
One of Dante’s men appeared.
He was alone.
His face had lost all color.
“Boss,” he said. “Marcus wasn’t running away.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed.
The guard swallowed.
“He was running toward someone.”
A gunshot cracked from the corridor.
May you like
Then Josephine heard a voice she had mourned for eight months call her name.
“Josie?”
