Chapter 4: The Cellar of Glass
In Manhattan, the rain fell without mercy, washing over the black glass towers of the financial district.
Dante Moretti sat on the leather sofa in the penthouse living room, his head buried in his ink-stained hands. The room was dark, lit only by the distant amber glow of the city grid. The thermal delivery bag still sat on the floor near the entrance, cold and untouched.
Beside his knee, on the low coffee table, rested the diamond ring the building superintendent had retrieved from the Brooklyn brownstone’s bathroom sink alongside a single sheet of paper with no words—only the snapped pieces of her SIM card.
"Boss," Marcus said, stepping from the hallway shadows, his trench coat dripping onto the threshold. "Her car is still in the long-term parking deck at LaGuardia, but she didn't board any flight. Her credit cards haven't registered a swipe since six yesterday evening."
"Find her," Dante rasped, his voice raw and destroyed. He hadn't slept in thirty-six hours; his dark eyes were bloodshot, the shadow of a two-day stubble dark across his jaw. "Marcus, hire every private firm from Boston to Philadelphia. I don't care what it costs. Just find her."
"Dante," Marcus said, his voice dropping into the quiet authority of an older brother who had pulled him out of street scraps twenty years ago. "What are you going to say when you stand in front of her? You were holding Victoria Sterling in your arms."
Dante flinched as if struck by a blade. He stood up, towering six feet two inches, pacing the length of the glass wall like a caged animal.
"Victoria’s father was pulling his private equity line from the harbor bonds," Dante groaned, running both hands through his thick hair until it stood on end. "She came to the apartment to tell me the board was voting at midnight. She was drunk, she was crying, and she threw herself at me. I was trying to push her toward the door when Elena walked in."
"Did you push her, Dante?" Marcus asked bluntly. "Or did your ego enjoy the fact that the daughter of the man trying to ruin you was begging for your attention?"
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Dante stopped, his breath hitching, the truth landing in his gut like cold lead. He looked at his own reflection in the high glass—the sharp suits, the custom tailoring, the expensive watches that covered his street roots.
"I didn't stop her fast enough," Dante admitted, the words barely a whisper. "And that's all that matters. Elena looked at me and saw a stranger. I saw myself, and I hated what I was."
