Page 85 of His Son's Ex

I head out of the mansion, keys in hand, certain no one saw me leave...until I hear the crunch of footsteps on gravel behind me.

Shit.

I glance over my shoulder, spotting one of the guards Dante assigned me following me to the garage. I was hoping to slip in and out unnoticed.

“Need a ride?” he asks.

No sense in trying to bluff my way out of this.

“Yeah, to Hell’s Kitchen,” I say casually. “For, um, some pickles. And gelato. They have this great little store there that sells homemade pickles in various flavored brines and I’ve been craving them.”

He gives me a questionable look. “That’s kind of far for a snack run. What’s really in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Can’t a girl keep a secret?”

His response comes as a raised eyebrow while crossing his arms over his chest.

“Alright, fine. I’m picking up a personal item.”

He frowns. “A personal item?”

I sigh dramatically. “Fine. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to get awkward about it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.”

“I’m picking up something lacy.” I wink. “A custom-made romantic surprise for Dante.”

“Okay then.” He clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “I’ll just, uh, wait in the car.”

“Good call,” I say with a smirk.

Men. So easy.

I’m tense on the drive to Hell’s Kitchen, my mind racing with what I might find. To my surprise—and unexpected luck—I see an intimates store near the library.

“Right here!”

The guard blushes slightly, then pulls the car into an open parking spot along the curb, not saying a word.

“You don’t need to come in. I need to try it on, and I want to shop around a little, so give me a bit.”

“Got it. I’ll wait right here.”

I get out and casually head into the store. Once inside, I dart directly out the back door and down the block toward my real destination.

The library is a stately old building, with cathedral ceilings and creaking floors. A bored librarian barely glances my way when I enter. I walk around, searching for the reserved books location. I spot it and head over, scanning the numbers on the spines until I find the book I’m looking for.

It’s a bulky reference book on old restaurants in New York. I yank it off the shelf, my heart thumping. At first, it appears nondescript. Then I find a small envelope taped to the inside cover. I glance around to make sure no one’s watching then take the book and duck into a quiet corner. I pluck the envelope free and open it. Inside is a USB stick.

My chest constricts with dread, but I’m already in too deep. I can’t run to Dante—he’d probably be angry at me for coming here alone and for keeping the baby store incident from him. I have to see what’s on it first.

I look around and spot a row of computers. Only one is free, so I plant myself in front of it. My pulse roars in my ears as I insert the USB. A single file labeledRestaurantCCTV.mp4appears on the screen.

I double-click on it. The footage is grainy, timestamped from years ago—two nights before my father was killed, if I recall the date right. My stomach plummets at the realization. The camera angle covers a dimly lit restaurant interior with patrons milling about. My eyes skim across their faces, dread building with each second.

Then I see them.

My heart lurches. A younger Dante Bellacino sits at a small table wearing a tailored suit. He’s leaning over, talking intently to a man I recognize—the man who shot my father.The man I’ve only seen in my nightmares and scattered photos. He gestures animatedly as he speaks, Dante nodding along. My blood runs cold.

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