Chapter 8 – THE FINAL CONFESSION

Dante stared at the faded train ticket.

Twenty-five years of mourning a mother who hadn’t died, but had fled the violence of his father.

“If Camille knew where she was…” Dante’s voice was barely a whisper. “She was holding this as her ultimate leverage. If the engagement went south, she was going to use my mother to control me.”

Marco nodded grimly.

“We need to find her, Dante. Before Victor Thorne’s remaining loyalists realize she’s exposed.”

Dante shoved the ticket into his pocket.

He looked at me. The softness that had been there just moments ago was gone, replaced by a desperate, frantic urgency.

“Megan. Go home. Lock your doors. I’ll contact you when this is over.”

“No,” I said firmly.

Dante blinked, surprised by my defiance.

“Megan, this isn’t a request. It’s too dangerous.”

“You don’t have a car, Dante,” I pointed out. “The FBI impounded the entire fleet. Marco’s truck is blocking the front gate for security. If you need to leave quietly, you need my car.”

Dante hesitated, looking at his head of security.

Marco gave a slight nod. “She’s right, boss. A 2012 Honda Civic is completely invisible right now.”

Dante looked back at me.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m driving,” I said, pulling my keys from my apron pocket.

Ten minutes later, Dante and I were in my small, beat-up car, driving through the dark, rain-slicked streets of Chicago.

Marco had stayed behind to guard Sarah and Leo until Dante returned.

“Where are we going?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the road.

“The address stamped on the back of the ticket,” Dante said, reading the faint ink under the streetlights.

“It’s a small bakery in the North Suburbs. Under the name Clara Rossi.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.

We drove in silence for forty minutes, leaving the towering skyline of the city behind for the quiet, tree-lined streets of the suburbs.

I pulled up to a small, charming storefront.

The sign above the door read Rossi’s Pastries.

The shop was dark, closed for the night, but a warm yellow light glowed from the apartment window above the store.

Dante stared up at the window.

His hands were shaking.

The ruthless mafia boss was suddenly just a terrified little boy hoping his mother was alive.

“Go,” I whispered gently, reaching over and squeezing his hand.

Dante took a deep breath.

He opened the door and stepped out into the cold air.

He walked up to the side door that led to the apartment.

He raised his hand to knock.

Before his knuckles touched the wood, a voice cut through the silence of the street.

“Don’t touch that door, Dante.”

We both froze.

Stepping out from the dark alley beside the bakery was a figure.

It wasn’t one of Victor Thorne’s hitmen.

It was Camille.

She looked entirely unhinged. Her expensive silk dress was torn, her hair ruined by the rain.

She had escaped the FBI transport.

And she was holding a silver revolver, pointed directly at Dante’s chest.

TITLE: The Bullet In The Dark

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