Chương 6 - The Don’s Reckoning
The tension in the basement corridor was thick enough to choke on. Marco didn't lower his gun immediately. His finger stayed perched on the trigger guard, his shoulder angled protectively in front of me.
“Marco,” Dante said softly. He didn't look at his second-in-command. His gaze never left my eyes. “Lower the piece. You have three seconds before Luca puts a three-round burst through your throat.”
Luca, the hulking capo flanking Dante, raised his submachine gun.
“Stand down, Marco,” I said quietly, placing my hand on his arm. “He won’t shoot us. Not yet. He likes his audiences too much.”
Marco slowly, deliberately lowered the Glock and slipped it into his holster.
Dante stepped forward. The blood on his knuckles was still wet. He tossed the crowbar to the ground; it clattered loudly against the wet concrete, rolling to a stop against my shoe.
“You ran,” Dante said.
“I left,” I corrected him, refusing to cower. “There’s a difference. Running implies fear. Leaving implies disgust.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. For a second, the mask slipped, showing the raw, bleeding fury beneath. “I told you to wait. I told you I would handle it.”
“You handled it by letting Sophia strip my dignity in front of twenty people! You handled it by asking me to *prove* my innocence!” I stepped past Marco, closing the distance between us until I was standing inches from Dante’s chest. The smell of copper and expensive cologne radiated off him. “You don't get to command me anymore, Dante. That ended when I put the ring next to your cousin’s stolen toy.”
“Carlo didn't act alone,” Dante whispered, his voice dangerously low.
“I know,” I fired back. “Marco already explained the Castiglione connection. Your cousin sold your shipping routes for gambling debts, and you were so blind with your family loyalty that you let him play you like a violin!”
Dante’s eyes flicked to Marco. A cold, lethal promise settled in his expression. “You’ve been talking too much, Marco.”
“He saved my life!” I shouted, pushing Dante’s chest with both hands. He didn't budge an inch—he was an oak tree rooted in stone. “Two Castiglione hitmen were inside my apartment five minutes ago! Where were your men, Dante? Where was your protection? You were so busy playing the wounded Don that you left me out in the cold to be slaughtered!”
That hit him. I saw the blow register in his eyes. The granite cracked.
“I came as soon as the surveillance feed pinged,” Dante said, his voice dropping into something raw, almost ragged. “I put Carlo’s hand in a vice until he gave up the names of the men he talked to. I came for you, Elena.”
“Too late,” I said, crossing my arms to hide the trembling in my fingers. “Always five minutes too late, Dante.”
He reached out, his large, bloodied hand reaching for my cheek. I turned my head away, flinching from his touch.
His hand hovered in the empty air between us, freezing. Slowly, painfully, his fingers curled into a fist, and he dropped it to his side.
“You’re coming back to the estate,” Dante said, attempting to rebuild the stone wall around his voice. “The Castigliones are making a move. New York is going to burn for the next seventy-two hours. You are not safe in this city.”
“I’m not safe with you, either,” I replied.
“You are coming with me,” he repeated, louder this time. “Willingly, or Luca carries you over his shoulder. I don't give a damn which one you choose, but you do not leave my sight again.”
I looked at him—this powerful, broken, monstrous man who thought love was a cage you built with iron bars and silk pillows.
May you like
“Fine,” I said, stepping past him toward the exit. “Take me back. Let’s finish the circus.”
---
