The past arrived not with a bang, but with a single, unmarked envelope.
It was left in Dante's study, on his leather chair. No one saw who delivered it. Inside was a black-and-white photograph, grainy but unmistakable. It showed Enzo Rossi, Valentina's father, in a café in Palermo, shaking hands with a man whose face was partially turned away, but whose distinctive dragon tattoo snaked up his neck. Salvatore "The Ghost" Mancini. A legendary, ruthless independent operator, believed to have been killed in the same war that claimed Dante's mother.
Paperclipped to the photo was a modern bank receipt. A wire transfer, from a numbered account, for two million euros. Dated one week ago. The beneficiary was listed only by an account number, but scrawled in pencil on the back were the words: "For future services. The daughter knows."
Dante's face was a mask of frozen fury when he showed it to her. "Did he ever speak to you about Mancini? About a deal? About hiding anything?"
"No! Nothing." Valentina felt the walls closing in. "What does 'the daughter knows' mean? I don't know anything!"
"It means someone thinks you do. Or they want me to think you do." He crushed the photo in his fist. "Mancini was the broker. He facilitated the sale of the stolen ledger. If he's alive… if your father was still in contact with him…" He swore violently in Italian. "It means the ledger, or copies of it, might still be out there. It means the people who have it might think you are the key."
Panic, sharp and acrid, rose in her throat. "What do we do?"
"We draw the ghost out into the light." Dante's eyes were like shards of Arctic ice. "We use what he wants."
"Me."
"You," he confirmed, his voice grim. "But not as bait. As a partner." He pulled her to him, his grip almost painful. "I need you to be brave, cuore mio. Braver than you've ever been. We are going to a party."
The party was the annual fundraising gala for the New York Opera, the pinnacle of society's calendar. It was also, as Dante explained, where the city's shadow and light mingled most freely. If Mancini or his associates were in the city, they would be there, moving among the glittering crowd.
Valentina was dressed in a gown of blood-red silk, so dark it was almost black, with a neckline that dipped and a back that plunged. It was armor and seduction. Dante wore his usual tuxedo, but the look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated predator.
"Stay by my side," he instructed as their car joined the line of limousines. "Smile. Look beautiful and oblivious. If anyone approaches you, especially anyone with a dragon tattoo, you are enchanted, naive, and know nothing. Let them underestimate you."
The gala was a whirl of light, music, and opulence. Valentina clung to Dante's arm, playing her part, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She felt a hundred eyes on her, judging, speculating. Then she saw him.
Across the room, near a potted palm, stood an elderly man in an impeccably tailored suit. He was speaking with a city councilman. As he lifted a glass of champagne, his cuff shifted, revealing the tail of a green dragon tattoo on his wrist.
Mancini.
Dante's hand tightened on her arm. He'd seen him too. "There," he murmured. "The ghost."
They began to move, a slow, deliberate orbit through the crowd. They were ten feet away when Mancini's eyes—ancient, intelligent, and utterly cold—met Dante's. A faint, respectful smile touched the old man's lips. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Not of greeting. Of recognition.
Then his gaze slid to Valentina. He looked at her not with malice, but with a kind of weary curiosity, as one might examine an interesting artifact. He raised his glass to her, a tiny, private toast.
Before Dante could close the distance, Mancini melted into the crowd, disappearing as if he'd never been there.
"He was toying with us," Dante growled, frustration vibrating through him.
"No," Valentina said slowly, a strange clarity descending upon her. "He was sending a message. He saw me. He knows I'm with you. And he's not afraid." She looked up at Dante, dread solidifying in her gut. "The photo wasn't a threat to you, Dante. It was a threat from him. He's telling you he can get to me anytime. He's telling you he's the one who knows everything."
The ride home was silent, the romantic fantasy of their last few weeks utterly shattered. The ghost was real, and he had just declared that their gilded cage had no lock he couldn't pick. The war wasn't over. It had just entered a new, more personal phase.