Chapter 3 - The Dead Man Called
Josephine answered before Dante could stop her.
“Andrew?”
Silence.
Then breathing.
“Josie.”
Her knees nearly gave out.
Dante took the phone, switched on speaker and placed it on the bench.
Josephine stared at the device.
“Where are you?”
Andrew ignored the question.
“Are you with Moretti?”
Dante’s expression hardened.
Josephine answered.
“Yes.”
Andrew cursed.
“Get away from him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s going to use you.”
Josephine laughed through tears.
“You’re giving me warnings now?”
“Josie—”
“I buried you.”
“I know.”
“I slept beside your empty side of the bed for eight months.”
“I know.”
“I spoke at your funeral.”
Silence.
Josephine’s voice broke.
“Were you there?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
The cruelty of that single word almost dropped her to the floor.
Dante watched her but did not interfere.
Josephine whispered, “You watched me bury you?”
“I had to.”
“No.”
“I did.”
“Then you’re a coward.”
“I know.”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Josephine stared at the passports.
“Who is Elena Moretti?”
The silence changed.
Dante noticed.
“So you found it,” Andrew said.
Josephine’s skin chilled.
“Answer me.”
“She was insurance.”
Dante stepped forward.
“My sister was not insurance.”
Andrew stopped breathing for a second.
Then quietly:
“You really are with him.”
Dante leaned toward the phone.
“Hello, Andrew.”
“Dante.”
The familiarity in Andrew’s voice was worse than fear.
These men knew each other.
Not casually.
Not recently.
Dante’s voice became flat.
“You owe me an explanation.”
“I owe you nothing.”
“You stole my ledger.”
“I prevented a massacre.”
“You sold information to the Feds.”
“I sold pieces.”
Josephine stared between the phone and Dante.
“What are you talking about?”
Neither answered.
She slammed her palm against the bench.
“Stop speaking around me!”
Andrew exhaled.
“Josie, listen carefully. Leave Chicago.”
“No.”
“Take the passport.”
“The one with a dead woman’s name?”
“Yes.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
Andrew continued.
“There’s cash in the case. Go north. Cross into Canada.”
Josephine almost laughed.
“You expect me to disappear because my dead husband tells me to?”
“You were never supposed to find out.”
“About what?”
“Any of it.”
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t.”
Josephine’s voice hardened.
“You can.”
Another silence.
Then Andrew spoke slowly.
“Your father wasn’t who your mother told you he was.”
Josephine stopped.
“My father died before I was born.”
“That part is true.”
Dante went rigid.
Andrew continued.
“But his name wasn’t Daniel Hayes.”
Dante’s eyes stayed on Josephine.
“Andrew,” Dante warned.
“You don’t get to decide anymore,” Andrew said.
Josephine whispered, “What was his name?”
Andrew answered.
“Michael Moretti.”
Dante turned away.
Josephine stared at him.
“No.”
Andrew kept talking.
“Your mother changed your name and left Chicago before you were born.”
Josephine shook her head.
“My mother was from Milwaukee.”
“No.”
“She grew up there.”
“No, Josie.”
Dante pressed both hands against the bench.
Josephine looked at him.
“You knew.”
Dante’s silence answered first.
Then he said, “I suspected.”
She backed away.
“You knew who I was when you sat down.”
“No.”
“You called me Elena.”
“I didn’t.”
“You said she was your sister.”
“My sister was Elena.”
“And my father?”
Dante finally looked at her.
“Michael was my uncle.”
Josephine felt physically sick.
Andrew spoke through the phone.
“That’s why the passport matters.”
Dante seized the phone.
“What did you do?”
“I kept her alive.”
“By putting my family name on forged documents?”
“By giving her an identity nobody in Chicago would question.”
Dante laughed without humor.
“You painted a target on her.”
“The target was already there.”
Josephine stepped closer to the phone.
“What target?”
Andrew said nothing.
“Andrew.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am tired of hearing that.”
“You need to leave.”
“No.”
“Josie—”
“Come home.”
The line went quiet.
Dante watched her.
Josephine continued.
“Come home and tell me everything.”
“I can’t.”
“Then stop telling me you love me.”
Another long silence.
When Andrew spoke again, his voice was different.
Smaller.
“I do love you.”
“That doesn’t mean anything anymore.”
“I know.”
Josephine wiped her tears.
“Where are you?”
“I’ll call again.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“No. Give me something.”
Andrew hesitated.
“Remember where I proposed.”
The line disconnected.
Josephine stared at the phone.
Dante asked, “Where?”
She picked up the passports.
“Not your business.”
“Everything about Andrew is currently my business.”
She turned toward him.
“He told me to get away from you.”
“And yet he stole my money, forged your identity and attended his own funeral.”
Josephine had no answer.
Dante stepped closer.
“Where did he propose?”
Josephine considered lying.
Then she remembered the gunshots at dinner.
Marcus.
The surveillance photographs.
Elena Moretti.
“Lincoln Park Conservatory.”
Dante nodded to his man.
“Get cars.”
Josephine grabbed his arm.
“I didn’t say you were coming.”
“You don’t have to.”
“You don’t own me.”
His gaze dropped to her hand.
“No.”
Something shifted between them.
Not warmth.
Not trust.
Recognition, perhaps.
Both of them had been manipulated by the same man.
Josephine released him.
They reached the conservatory after sunrise.
Closed.
Dante made a call.
Three minutes later a side entrance opened.
Josephine didn’t ask how.
Andrew had proposed near a stone bench beneath palms.
Josephine walked toward it alone.
Nine years earlier he had hidden a ring inside a small book of poetry.
Now another book sat on the bench.
Same title.
Josephine’s heart pounded.
She opened it.
A photograph fell out.
Dante picked it up.
His face hardened.
Josephine looked.
The photograph showed a much younger Dante beside a man Josephine had never met.
The man resembled her.
Same eyes.
Same narrow chin.
On the back someone had written:
MICHAEL MORETTI, 1994.
Josephine touched the man’s face.
“My father.”
Dante nodded.
“What happened to him?”
Dante looked away.
“My father killed him.”
Josephine’s hand dropped.
“What?”
“Family war.”
“You’re telling me your father murdered mine?”
“Yes.”
“And you expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
The honesty disarmed her.
Dante looked at the photograph.
“I was twelve.”
Josephine said nothing.
“He told everyone Michael betrayed the family.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
Josephine looked through the book.
Inside another page was a handwritten note from Andrew.
If Josephine found this, take her to St. Agnes.
She knows nothing.
Dante read it.
“St. Agnes.”
“What is that?”
“A church on the South Side.”
They arrived forty minutes later.
The church had been abandoned for years.
Boards covered several windows.
The front doors were chained.
Dante’s men cut the lock.
Inside, dust covered the pews.
Josephine walked toward the altar.
Nothing.
Dante searched the sacristy.
One guard called from behind a side wall.
They found a narrow staircase leading beneath the church.
Josephine followed Dante into darkness.
At the bottom stood an old metal door.
A keypad glowed beside it.
Josephine tried Andrew’s birthday.
Denied.
Their anniversary.
Denied.
Then she entered her mother’s birthday.
The lock clicked.
Dante glanced at her.
Josephine opened the door.
Inside was a room filled with filing cabinets.
Old photographs.
Newspapers.
Police reports.
And one enormous wall covered with family trees.
The Moretti name appeared at the center.
Josephine stepped closer.
Her own name was there.
JOSEPHINE MILLER.
A red line connected her to Michael Moretti.
Beneath her name were two words.
LAST HEIR.
Dante stood beside her.
“That’s wrong.”
“What?”
“You’re not the last heir.”
He pointed lower on the wall.
Another photograph had been pinned beneath hers.
A child.
Perhaps six years old.
The name beneath it had been blacked out.
Josephine leaned closer.
“What does that mean?”
Dante pulled the photograph free.
Something was written on the back.
He read it.
Then went silent.
Josephine grabbed his wrist.
“What does it say?”
May you like
Dante looked at her.
“Andrew has a son.”
