Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Negatives
I opened the manila folder with fingers that felt inexplicably stiff, like frozen wood. Inside were crime scene photographs taken by a private investigator Gabriel must have hired the moment the wreckage was towed.
The images were brutal. The driver's side of Natalie’s red coupe was completely caved in, scorched black by fire, but the passenger side remained remarkably intact. What caught my eye wasn't the twisted metal or the shattered glass—it was the glove compartment, which had popped open during the impact.
Spilled across the floor mat were dozens of printed photographs.
"She was a photographer," I whispered, my voice thick. "She worked at a gallery downtown."
"She was more than a gallery assistant," Gabriel said, leaning against the edge of the desk above me. "She had an eye for things people tried very hard to hide. For the past six months, she wasn't just taking pictures of landscapes and city architecture. She was taking photos of dock shipments, private meetings at shipping yards, and men who thought they were invisible."
I flipped through the photos until my hand stopped over a glossy 8x10. It showed a dimly lit warehouse loading bay in the industrial district. Standing near an open shipping container were two men. One was facing away, but the other—older, with silver hair slicked back and an expensive Brioni suit—was looking directly into the camera lens with a cold, menacing sneer.
My blood ran cold. "Who is that?"
"Dante Moretti," Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register. "The head of the rival syndicate across town. For two years, we’ve had an uneasy truce. But three weeks ago, shipments started disappearing from my docks. Information started leaking to federal agents."
"And you think Natalie was spying on them?" I asked, looking up at him.
"I know she was," Gabriel said flatly. "She thought she was playing journalist. She thought because she was engaged to me, she was untouchable. She didn't realize that in our world, curiosity is a fatal disease."
A wave of bitter anger washed over me, hot and sharp. I stood up, stepping right into Gabriel’s personal space, pushing my finger against his chest.
"Don't you dare," I hissed, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. "Don't you dare talk about her like she was some naive little girl who didn't know the risks! You’re the one who dragged her into this garbage-tier mafia war! If she was taking those pictures, it’s because she was trying to prove to you—and to herself—that she belonged in your dangerous little empire!"
Gabriel didn't flinch. He didn't push me away. He just stared down at me, his dark eyes shimmering with a profound, desolate grief that mirrored my own.
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"You're right," Gabriel murmured, shocking me into silence. "I brought her into the fire. And I’ll spend the rest of my life burning every single person who touched her."
Franco cleared his throat softly from the doorway. "Boss. We have a visitor at the front gates. Unscheduled. And judging by the plates on the town car, it's not someone coming to offer condolences."
