Chapter 8: The Performance of Concern
I stayed in the sitting room.
Ric stood just inside the door, arms crossed, face neutral.
Through the wall I could hear voices in the entry hall — Dante's low and even, and another voice, warmer, louder, the voice of a man performing relief.
"I came as soon as I heard," the second voice said.
"Dante, my God.
When they told me about the road—"
"Come in," Dante said.
"We'll talk in the study."
Footsteps.
A door closing.
Silence.
I looked at Ric.
"He's wired?" I asked quietly.
Ric didn't answer.
Which was an answer.
I sat with my hands in my lap and waited.
The clock on the mantelpiece moved slowly.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Then a sound I didn't expect.
Raised voices.
Not shouting — controlled, but sharp.
The walls were thick enough that the words didn't carry, only the shape of them.
Dante's voice, flat and precise.
Enzo's voice, climbing higher.
Then a single loud impact.
Something hitting a surface.
A desk, maybe.
A hand coming down hard.
Then silence again.
Then Enzo's voice, lower now.
Much lower.
The door to the study opened.
Footsteps in the hall.
Ric moved to the door of the sitting room and opened it six inches.
He listened.
Then he opened it fully and looked at me.
"He's asking for you," he said.
"Dante?"
"Yes."
I stood.
Followed Ric into the hall and to the study.
Dante was standing behind the desk.
Enzo was in the chair across from it — late forties, heavier than Dante, well-dressed, with the kind of face that had probably been charming once and had since learned to use that charm like a tool.
He looked at me when I walked in.
His expression didn't change, but his eyes moved quickly — from my face to my clothes to Dante's face and back.
"This is Cara Fields," Dante said.
"She works at Bellini's."
"I know who she is," Enzo said.
The room went still.
Enzo seemed to realize what he'd just confirmed.
He adjusted smoothly.
"I heard about what happened on the road," he said.
"That she followed you.
That she helped." He turned to me.
"That was very brave."
"Sit down, Cara," Dante said.
I sat in the second chair.
Enzo and I were now side by side, both facing Dante across the desk.
"Enzo," Dante said.
"I'm going to ask you something and I want you to think carefully before you answer."
Enzo spread his hands.
Open.
Reasonable.
"Of course."
"The access codes for my vehicle.
Who did you give them to?"
The hands didn't move.
But something behind Enzo's eyes did.
"I don't know what you mean."
"The codes were pulled from the system eleven days ago.
The log shows your credentials."
"That's not possible.
I haven't accessed that system in months."
"The log disagrees."
"Then the log is wrong." Enzo's voice stayed even.
"Or someone used my credentials without my knowledge.
It happens.
You know it happens."
"It happens," Dante agreed.
"So let's talk about the accounts."
A beat.
"Which accounts?"
"The three operational accounts restructured two days ago.
The transfers were small.
Careful.
The kind of careful that takes someone who knows exactly what triggers a review and exactly how to stay beneath it." Dante leaned forward slightly.
"You're the only person in this organization with that specific knowledge, Enzo."
"Dante." Enzo's voice shifted.
Quieter.
More intimate.
"We are family.
I have been beside you since before your father died.
Whatever you think you've found—"
"Marco told us," Dante said.
The word *Marco* landed like a stone.
Enzo's face went through three expressions in less than two seconds.
Disbelief.
Calculation.
And then, very briefly, something that looked almost like fear.
He recovered fast.
"Marco is compromised," he said.
"Whatever he told you, he's trying to protect himself by pointing at me.
That's what people do when they're caught.
They find someone bigger to blame."
"He had documentation," Dante said.
"Transfers.
Dates.
A message thread."
"Fabricated."
"With your private encryption key."
Enzo's jaw tightened.
"I want my lawyer," he said.
"He's already been called," Dante said.
"He's on his way." A pause.
"So are the people from the financial crimes division.
I called them this morning."
Enzo went very still.
"You called the authorities."
"I did."
"Dante." The warmth was completely gone now.
What was underneath it was harder and older.
"You understand what that means.
For both of us.
For everything we've built."
"I understand exactly what it means," Dante said.
"I've been building something different for the last three years.
You didn't notice.
That was your mistake."
Enzo looked at me.
Really looked at me, for the first time since I'd walked in.
"This is because of her," he said.
"A waitress.
You're burning down eleven years because of a woman you met last night."
"I'm burning down eleven years," Dante said quietly, "because you tried to kjll me."
The word sat in the air between them.
Enzo stood up slowly.
He straightened his jacket.
He looked at Dante across the desk with something that might have been grief if it weren't so clearly mixed with fury.
"You'll regret this," he said.
"When the lawyers are done and the dust settles and you're standing in whatever's left — you'll regret not handling this inside the family."
"Maybe," Dante said.
"But you'll be in a cell when I find out."
Enzo walked to the door.
He stopped with his hand on the frame.
He didn't look at Dante.
He looked at me.
"You should have stayed at the restaurant," he said.
May you like
It was the exact wording of the text.
He walked out.
