Chapter 5 - Stepping Across the Threshold
Karen Delaney stood in the center of the guest suite on the second floor of Dante Marchetti’s estate, her fingers tracing the dark mahogany grain of a four-poster bed that looked older than the state of Rhode Island.
The room was vast, carpeted in deep emerald wool, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the misty, snow-dusted pines of the Scituate reservoir. On the dresser sat three shopping bags from an upscale department store in Providence—soft cashmere sweaters, wool slacks, heavy winter coats, and leather boots, all purchased within two hours by one of Dante’s drivers.
Karen hadn't touched them.
She had showered, scrubbing the grease of Marchetti’s kitchen from her skin with lavender soap until her flesh was pink and raw, but she had put her own clothes back on: her faded denim jeans and an oversized grey sweatshirt with frayed cuffs. She refused to look like a kept woman. She refused to look like someone who had traded one cage for a more luxurious one.
A soft knock sounded at the heavy oak door.
"Come in," Karen said, turning around.
Dante stepped inside. He had changed into a dark wool sweater and charcoal trousers, his silver-streaked hair still damp from the shower. In his hand, he carried a small silver tray containing a glass bowl of warm water, clean gauze, and a jar of yellow medical ointment.
Karen frowned. "What’s that for?"
"Sit down," Dante said, gesturing toward an armchair near the fireplace.
"Mr. Marchetti, I’m fine—"
"Karen," he said, using that low, unyielding tone that made disobedience feel like an impossibility. "You spent eleven months scrubbing pans with split skin. If those knuckles get infected, you won't be able to turn a key, let alone search through your sister’s belongings. Sit."
Reluctantly, her heart beating a strange, uneven cadence against her ribs, Karen crossed the room and sat in the chair.
Dante pulled a wooden stool over, setting the tray on a side table. He sat directly in front of her, his knees inches from hers. For a man of his size and violent reputation, his movements were remarkably gentle as he reached out and took her right hand in his.
Karen stiffened, an instinctive gasp catching in her throat. His hands were large, warm, and rough with old scars, completely enveloping her small, battered fingers.
"Relax," Dante murmured, his eyes focused entirely on her hand. "I’m not going to hurt you."
He dipped a clean cloth into the warm water and carefully began wiping away the dried blood and lingering grime around her knuckles. The stinging sensation made her wince, her fingers twitching, but Dante held her wrist firm with a light, reassuring pressure.
"Nell was stubborn, too," Dante said quietly, his voice competing with the soft hiss of the gas fire. "When she brought the first package down from Boston, she walked through a blizzard because her radiator hose burst on Route 95. She showed up at the back door of Marchetti’s with frostbite on her ears and ice in her hair, but she had the package dry inside her coat."
Karen looked down at the top of Dante’s head, watching the firelight glint against the silver at his temples. "Nell was always trying to save everyone. When our father died, she was only sixteen, but she tried to take three jobs. She never let me see how scared she was."
"And you did the same for your mother," Dante said, lifting his eyes to meet hers. His gaze was intense, dark, and startlingly vulnerable. "For two years, Karen. Alone. Carrying a burden that would have broken grown men."
"I didn't have a choice," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"We always have a choice," Dante countered gently. He opened the jar of ointment, scooping a small amount onto his fingertips and smoothing it across the cracked, red fissures of her skin. The cool balm immediately dulled the burning ache. "Most people run. Most people drop the weight and let someone else pick up the pieces. You didn't."
Karen watched his hands as he began wrapping clean white gauze around her knuckles, his long fingers working with the practiced dexterity of someone who had dressed bullet wounds and knife slashes in backrooms where ambulances weren't an option.
"Where would Nell have hidden those files, Karen?" Dante asked softly, tying off the gauze with a neat, secure knot. "Think back to the last week of her life. Did she leave anything at your mother’s house? A lockbox? A gift? Something that seemed out of place?"
Karen closed her eyes, forcing her mind back into the darkest, most painful corners of her memory—the days immediately preceding the rainy Tuesday on Route 6.
"She... she came by the apartment on Sunday," Karen murmured, her brow furrowing. "Two days before the accident. She was acting strange. Nervous. She wouldn't sit down. She gave Mom a music box—one of those cheap porcelain carousels that plays *Moon River*."
Dante paused, his hands still holding hers. "Did she say where she got it?"
"She said she found it at an antique barn in Scituate," Karen remembered, her eyes flying open. "She told Mom, *'Keep this in the back of the linen closet, Ma. Don't let the home health aides knock it over. It’s got family secrets inside.'* We laughed. We thought she was just joking about the antique value."
Dante’s jaw tightened. A cold, dangerous spark lit in his dark eyes.
"The apartment in Olneyville," Dante said. "Who has the keys?"
"The landlord cleared it out after Mom went into the home," Karen said, her stomach dropping into a pit of sudden dread. "He dumped most of our furniture in a storage unit on Valley Street. Unit forty-two. I’ve been paying forty dollars a month just to keep the lock on it."
Dante stood up smoothly, picking up the tray.
May you like
"Get dressed, Karen," he said, nodding toward the new clothes on the dresser. "We’re going to Valley Street. Before Victor Vane realizes what we’re looking for."
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