Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Dante - A week later
The phone feels heavy in my hand. Lorenzo's voice carries that edge—the one that means he's running on caffeine and rage.
"Alejandro's gone," he says. "Vanished. His entire operation in Denver went dark three days ago."
I pace the length of the penthouse living room. "People don't just vanish. Not cartel leaders with infrastructure."
"Nico's team swept every location we had flagged. Empty. Cleaned out. Professional work." Lorenzo pauses. "It's like he was never here."
"He's regrouping."
"Obviously. The question is where and when he resurfaces."
I stop at the window. My reflection stares back—a man who looks healthier than he did a week ago. The wound barely pulls anymore. Marina's been feeding me like she's trying to fatten a pig for slaughter. "What about moving us to Chicago?"
"Not yet." Lorenzo's tone hardens. "If Alejandro's watching—and we have to assume he is—moving you exposes the route. Exposes Marina. Exposes everyone who helps transport you."
"So we stay trapped in this penthouse indefinitely."
"You stay alive indefinitely."
I press my palm against the cool glass. "I'm going insane in here, Lorenzo."
"You're recovering. And you're keeping her safe. That's the job right now."
The job. Like Marina is an assignment. Like I haven't spent every night this week learning the sounds she makes when she sleeps, the way she hums off-key while making coffee, the exact pressure she likes when I work the tension from her shoulders.
"How long?" I ask.
"Until we find him. Vittoria's running traces on his known associates. Nico's got people watching the border. Bruno's reaching out to contacts in Mexico." Lorenzo exhales. "We'll find him, Dante. We always do."
"And if he finds us first?"
"Then you do what you do best."
Kill. He means kill. The word hangs unspoken between us.
"Keep me updated," I say.
"Always. And Dante?" Lorenzo's voice softens slightly. "Take care of her. Sophia will never forgive me if something happens to Marina."
"Nothing will happen to her."
"I know." He hangs up.
I lower the phone and stare at the city below. Somewhere out there, Alejandro Mendoza is planning his next move. The man who murdered my family twenty-four years ago. The man who's been waiting—
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I frown and open the message. A photo loads.
My blood turns to ice.
Two people stand outside a modest house. An older couple. The woman has Marina's eyes. The man has her stubborn jaw. They're getting into a car, completely unaware they're being photographed.
Marina's parents.
Another buzz. Another photo.
Vittoria. Walking through the Chicago compound gates. She's looking at her phone, distracted. Vulnerable.
Buzz.
Aria Sartori. Sitting at an outdoor café. She's sipping espresso, reading a book. Alone.
My hand shakes.
Buzz.
A text this time.
1847 Industrial Way. 1 a.m. tonight. Come alone. This is not a trap. If you don't show, these four people die at the same moment. Their blood will be on your hands, not mine.
"Fuck." The word tears out of me.
I grip the phone so hard the case creaks. Four people. Three locations.
Alejandro isn't just hunting me. He's dismantling everything I care about. Everyone I—
"Dante?"
Marina's voice comes from the hallway. I shove the phone in my pocket and turn.
"What happened?" She crosses toward me, concern creasing her forehead. "I heard you curse."
"Nothing." The lie tastes like ash. "Just felt a little pain."
Her eyes narrow. She knows my tells better than I'd like. "Your wound?"
"Yeah."
"You haven't complained about pain in two days."
Fuck. She's too observant. Too smart. Too everything.
"It comes and goes," I say.
Marina stops in front of me. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo—something floral that's become my favorite scent in the world. She reaches up and presses her palm flat against my chest, right over my heart.
"Your heart's racing."
"You have that effect on me."
"Dante." Her voice drops. Not angry. Worried. "What's wrong?"
I look down at her. This woman who crashed back into my life through blood and bullets. Who stitched me together when I was dying. Who let me into her bed and her body and maybe—maybe—something deeper.
The photos burn in my pocket. Her parents. Smiling. Unaware.
I can't tell her. If I tell her, she'll want to come with me. She'll want to help. She'll put herself directly in Alejandro's crosshairs.
"Nothing's wrong." I cup her face in my hands. "I'm fine."
Marina searches my eyes. I hold her gaze and lie through my teeth, hating myself for every second of it.
"Okay," she says finally. But she doesn't believe me. I can see it in the slight tension around her mouth, the way her fingers curl against my chest.
She doesn't believe me, and she's letting it go anyway.
For now.
I watch Marina for the next hour.
She's curled up on the couch, some reality show playing on the massive television. She's not really watching it—I can tell by the way her eyes drift, the way she keeps glancing toward the hallway where I disappeared earlier. She knows something's wrong. She's giving me space to tell her.
The photos cycle through my mind on repeat. Her mother's smile. Her father's hand on the car door. Vittoria's distracted expression. Aria alone at that café.
Four people. Three locations. One impossible choice.
I could call Lorenzo. Tell him about the threat. But Alejandro specifically said come alone. If I involve the family, if they move to protect Vittoria and Aria, Alejandro will know. He'll have people watching. He'll give the order.
Marina's parents will die first. They're the most vulnerable. No security. No awareness of the danger.
I've run every scenario. Every possible play. And they all end the same way—with someone dead unless I walk into that warehouse alone.
This is probably the worst decision I'll ever make.
But I can't risk it. I can't gamble with their lives. Not her parents. Not Vittoria, who's been like a sister to me for twenty years. Not Aria, who treated me like her own son when I had nothing.
I don't have any other way to do this.
The clock on the wall reads 11:47 p.m.
I push off from the doorframe and walk toward the couch. Marina looks up as I approach, her expression shifting from distracted to alert. She mutes the television.
"Hey." She tilts her head. "You've been hovering for the past hour. Want to tell me what's actually going on?"
I sit down next to her. Close. Our knees touch. I take her hands in mine—both of them, even the right one that still trembles sometimes. She lets me.
"I need you to listen to me carefully," I say.
Her fingers tighten around mine. "Dante. You're scaring me."
"I know." I hold her gaze. "Shortly, I'm going to leave."
Marina blinks. "Leave? Leave where? We're supposed to stay here. Lorenzo said—"
"Marina." I squeeze her hands. "I need you to trust me. And I need you to understand what I'm about to tell you."
She goes still. That sharp intelligence I love so much is working overtime, reading my face, my posture, the tension in my grip. "What happened?"
"Someone has targeted your parents."
The color drains from her face. "What?"
"And Vittoria. And Aria." I keep my voice steady even as her breathing accelerates. "They sent me photos. Surveillance photos. All four of them, going about their day. Unaware."
"No." Marina tries to pull her hands back. I don't let her. "No, no, no—"
"They won't harm them if I get there."
"Get where?" Her voice pitches higher. Panic edges into her words. "Dante, what are you talking about? Who sent the photos? Where are you going?"
"Marina." I release one of her hands and cup her face instead, forcing her to look at me. "Right now, I need you to stay calm. I'll explain the plan. Okay?"
She's shaking. Her whole body trembles against mine. But she meets my eyes, and I watch her fight for control. Watch her shove down the terror clawing at her throat.
"Okay," she whispers. "Okay. Tell me."
I nod.
Marina
Dante moves through the penthouse.
I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him. My hands won't stop shaking. I've pressed them between my knees to hide it, but the tremor runs deeper than my fingers. It's in my chest. My stomach. The base of my skull where a headache is building.
He pulls on a dark jacket. Checks his phone. Slides a knife into his boot—I didn't even know he had a knife. Where did he get a knife?
Focus, I tell myself. Remember the plan.
The plan. Right.
It's a good plan. Dante explained every piece of it, his voice calm and measured while my world collapsed around me. He accounted for variables. Timing. Contingencies.
But plans go wrong.
Plans go wrong all the time.
Dante finishes checking his phone and looks at me. He crosses the room and crouches in front of me, his hands covering mine where they're still pressed between my knees.
"Hey." His voice is low. Gentle. "Look at me."
I do. His eyes are dark in the dim light, but I can see the steadiness in them. The certainty. He's not afraid.
Or maybe he is, and he's just better at hiding it than I am.
"You remember what to do?" he asks.
I nod. My throat feels too tight for words.
"Marina. I need you to trust me."
"I do." The words come out broken. Cracked down the middle. "I do trust you. I just—"
Dante releases my hands and cups my face instead. His palms are warm against my cheeks. Rough with calluses. I lean into the touch without meaning to.
"I'm coming back," he says.
"You don't know that."
"I do." His jaw tightens. "Because I have something to come back to now."
My eyes burn. I blink rapidly, refusing to cry. Not now. Not when he needs me to be strong.
"Dante—"
He kisses me.
When he pulls back, we're both breathing hard.
"You need to do exactly what we talked about," he says. His forehead rests against mine. "Okay?"
"Okay." My voice is barely a whisper.
"Say it again."
"Okay." Stronger this time. Steadier. "I'll do it. Fifteen minutes."
He nods. Presses one more kiss to my forehead and then he's standing. Moving toward the door. His phone buzzes in his pocket.
"Uber's here," he says.
The absurdity of it hits me. An Uber. He's taking an Uber to confront a cartel leader. Like he's heading to the airport. Like this is just another Tuesday night.
I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to grab him and drag him back to the bed and refuse to let him leave.
Instead, I stand. My legs feel unsteady, but they hold.
"Dante."
He pauses at the door. Turns to look at me.
I don't know what to say. Everything feels inadequate. Be careful is useless—he's walking into a trap on purpose.
So I say the only thing I can.
"Come back to me."
"Always," he says.
Then he opens the door and walks out.
The click of the lock engaging sounds like a gunshot in the silence.
I stand there for a long moment. Staring at the closed door. Counting my heartbeats. Waiting for the elevator to ding, for his footsteps to fade, for the reality of his absence to settle into my bones.
Fifteen minutes.
I have fifteen minutes before I can do anything.
I look at my phone. 12:03 a.m.
The screen blurs. I blink, and tears spill down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand—my right hand, the one that still shakes when I'm scared.
It's shaking now.
I sink back onto the bed. Pull my knees to my chest. Wrap my arms around them and hold on tight.
Fifteen minutes.
I can survive fifteen minutes.
I've survived worse.