Chapter 23: The Enemy of My Enemy

Elena Vitiello POV

"They'll come after me?"

The words felt unreal.

Like something from another person's life.

Not mine.

Not anymore.

I had left New York.

Left the Family.

Left the violence.

Left Dante.

Wasn't that supposed to be enough?

"Yes," Dante said quietly.

"Why?"

"Because that's how this world works."

"Not my world."

"It used to be."

I hated that he was right.

For years, I had convinced myself I wasn't truly part of the Moretti empire.

I was just adjacent to it.

A wife.

A decoration.

An afterthought.

But decorations still sat inside the house when it burned.

"Explain," I demanded.

Dante glanced around the café.

"Not here."

"Then where?"

"Somewhere private."

"Absolutely not."

His jaw tightened.

"Elena—"

"No."

"This is serious."

"I know."

"Then stop being stubborn."

"Stop being suspicious."

Silence.

"Fair," he admitted.

That annoyed me more than if he'd argued.

Eventually we settled for a quiet park several blocks away.

Public.

Open.

Safe.

At least as safe as anything involving Dante Moretti could be.

Rain clouds hung low overhead.

The park was mostly empty.

Dante remained standing while I sat on a bench.

"Start talking."

"Six months ago, somebody started targeting Moretti finances."

"Police?"

"No."

"FBI?"

"No."

"Then who?"

"Someone smarter."

That answer immediately worried me.

Because Dante rarely complimented enemies.

"How smart?"

"Smart enough to stay invisible."

"That's not comforting."

"It's not supposed to be."

He ran a hand through his hair.

The gesture looked exhausted.

"Accounts disappeared."

"Money vanished."

"Businesses were compromised."

"People started talking."

"And?"

"And whoever is doing it knows things they shouldn't know."

A cold feeling settled in my stomach.

"What kind of things?"

"Internal things."

"Family things."

"Things only insiders would know."

"You think there's a leak."

"I know there's a leak."

Silence.

"Then why would they contact me?"

For a moment, Dante didn't answer.

That hesitation terrified me.

"Dante."

"Because your name appeared."

The air left my lungs.

"What?"

"Several transactions were routed through accounts connected to you."

"Impossible."

"I know."

"Then explain it."

"Someone used your identity."

"Why?"

"Because you're the perfect target."

"How?"

"You disappeared."

"You left New York."

"You have no connection to the organization anymore."

"Meaning if investigators start looking, you'll appear guilty and isolated."

I stared at him.

"Someone framed me."

"Yes."

"Wonderful."

"I know."

"I hate your life."

"Believe me, so do I lately."

For the first time, genuine fear crept into my chest.

Not because of prison.

Not because of investigations.

Because this felt deliberate.

Personal.

"Who would do this?"

"I don't know."

"That's not reassuring."

"Nothing about this situation is reassuring."

His phone vibrated.

Dante looked down.

Then immediately became still.

"What?" I asked.

"Marco."

"And?"

"He found something."

"Good something or bad something?"

"With Marco, usually bad."

He answered the call.

"Talk."

Several seconds passed.

Then Dante's entire posture changed.

Dangerous.

Focused.

Lethal.

"Are you sure?"

More silence.

"Send everything."

He hung up.

"Dante."

"We need to go."

"That's not an answer."

"The leak."

"What about it?"

"We found him."

"Who?"

"Not him."

His expression darkened.

"Her."

Something about the way he said it made my stomach drop.

"Who is she?"

Dante looked directly at me.

And for the first time since arriving in California, he looked genuinely shocked.

"Someone from your past."

"What?"

"Someone you trusted."

"Dante, stop speaking in riddles."

"I'm trying to understand it myself."

"Then tell me."

Several long seconds passed.

Then:

"Isabella."

The world stopped.

"No."

"Elena—"

"No."

"The evidence—"

"No."

I stood so quickly the bench nearly tipped.

"Absolutely not."

"I thought the same thing."

"Isabella helped me escape."

"I know."

"She protected me."

"I know."

"She's my friend."

"I know."

"Then she's innocent."

Dante's silence was answer enough.

And I hated it.

Because a terrible possibility had already begun forming inside my mind.

A possibility I refused to accept.

Across the country, in a luxury hotel overlooking the Pacific Ocean, Isabella sat alone in a suite.

A laptop glowed in front of her.

Multiple bank accounts filled the screen.

Encrypted transfers.

Secret transactions.

Years of hidden operations.

Slowly, she closed the computer.

Then looked toward the window.

"I'm sorry, Elena," she whispered.

"But this was never about you."

And for the first time, the real enemy finally stepped out of the shadows.