27. Chapter Thirty-Seven Dante
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Dante
I killed the engine and my breath fogged up the windshield, a brief shroud over the view of the old terracotta fa?ade. Little Italy was waking up; the scent of bread from the corner bakery clawed at some distant part of me that could almost savor it. But not today. Today, the familiar tune of an accordion player down the street sounded like a dirge. My fingers clenched into fists as I stepped out onto the curb, eyes scanning for my father’s car. It wasn’t there. That set off alarm bells in my head louder than the church’s morning call.
“Ma?” I called out, voice more strained than I liked as I spotted her on the stoop, the lines of worry on her face deepening. “What are you doing outside?”
She was a small woman, my mother, but she held herself with a sort of quiet strength that had seen our family through the darkest times. “Sweeping,” she said, looking at the broom as if I had just asked her the dumbest question ever. “The leaves…”
“Right.”
“Dante? What’s wrong? Why are you here without calling?”
Now though, as she looked up at me, all I saw was confusion—fear, maybe—sketched across her features.
“Ma, listen,” I started, my voice rough around the edges as I climbed the steps to her. “It’s Marco...he’s been shot.”
The color bled from her cheeks, her hand flying to her mouth like she could hold back the gasp that escaped. I caught her before she could sway, her petite frame trembling under my hands.
“Is he—“
“Alive. Stable,” I cut in quickly, not wanting her mind to wander to those dark places. “He made it through the night, Ma.”
“When?” Her voice barely rose above the hum of the city, but it cut right through me.
“Last night,” I replied, watching as she absorbed the blow. “We need to go to him.”
“Where is he?”
“Hospital, not far from here,” I said. “He’s—he’s fine, Ma. I promise.”
“Ma, we need to get to the hospital,” I said, guiding her gently toward the sleek black car parked at the curb.
She slid into the passenger seat without protest, but as soon as I started the engine, the dam broke. Her tears were silent, a river of pain carving through the stoic facade she wore like armor. Her hands twisted in her lap, knotted and clenched as if she could squeeze out some sense from the situation.
“Why didn’t your father call?” she whispered between stifled sobs. “Why you?”
I kept my eyes on the road, the city blurring past us in a haze of morning grime and autumn chill. “You know Dad, Ma. He wouldn’t bother you with this until he knew for sure that Marco was out of the woods.”
“Protecting me from uncertainty,” she murmured, almost laughing bitterly. “Always the protector.”
“Only because he cares, Ma,” I replied, stealing a glance at her profile—grace under pressure, even now.
The hospital loomed ahead, its stark facade a grim reminder of life’s fragility. We walked through the sliding doors together, the antiseptic scent of the place an unwelcome assault. It was too clean, too sterile.
There, in a room not much bigger than a cell, lay Marco. My little brother’s grin was weak but present, bandages wrapped around his torso like ribbons of valor.
“Look who’s awake,” I joked, trying to light up the dim space with some humor.
“Could use a better wake-up call,” Marco retorted, his voice raspy but filled with that familiar stubborn edge.
“Marco…” my mom started.
“Ma?” His eyes softened as they found hers.
“Shh, don’t talk,” she cooed, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “Save your strength.”
Their voices melded together, a low hum of mother and son reuniting against all odds. Taking it as my cue to leave, I nodded to them both and slipped out of the room, closing the door on the scene behind me.
I stepped out into the sterile, white hallway, the clacking of nurses’ shoes and distant beeping of machines becoming white noise to my frazzled nerves. The hospital’s oppressive atmosphere was suffocating—too much like a cage for someone bred in the wild throes of organized crime. I needed space, air, escape. I made a beeline for the bathroom.
Pushing open the door, I found myself alone; the solitude was as welcome as a shot of whiskey on a cold night. I locked myself in and leaned over the sink, staring at the man reflected in the mirror. Dark circles loomed under my eyes, a few silver threads winked back from amongst the black, and lines etched deeper grooves around my mouth.
Jesus, I looked like shit.
“Christ,” I muttered, splashing cold water onto my skin, watching the droplets ripple and distort my reflection. It was a brief respite before duty called again.
Shaking off the water, I headed into one of the stalls and locked it behind me. My hand went instinctively to my pocket, fishing out the phone that served as both leash and lifeline. My thumb skimmed over the screen, bringing up the live feed.
There she was—Jade.
She was bound to the bed, an image designed to remind her of her place in my world. The vibrator was secured between her legs, a silent symbol of the power I held over her. Desire flickered within me, primal and urgent, but I quashed it down. There’d be time for that later. For now, there were other matters to attend to.
“Damn it,” I hissed, swiping away the image and stuffing the phone back into my pocket. My jaw clenched tight as steel; the necessary evils of my existence weighed heavy on my conscience. She probably didn’t deserve this, but there was no other way. Talking to her had been pointless and I needed her to stay put.
I pushed out of the stall, my movements deliberate and controlled. The cheap scent of industrial cleaner failed to mask the underlying stench of decay that seemed to cling to the hospital walls. I straightened my suit with a tug at the cuff, steeling myself for what lay ahead.
The door to Marco’s room loomed before me, a silent sentinel guarding the fragile life within. My fingers curled around the cool metal handle, pausing as I took a steadying breath. The click of the latch echoed in the sterile hallway as I pushed the door open.
“Father,” I greeted evenly, my voice betraying none of the turmoil churning inside me.
Enzo Moretti sat there, his silhouette stark against the window where morning light fought to penetrate the gloom. He turned his head slowly, and I saw it then—the weariness etched into his features, the sag of his shoulders beneath the fabric of his suit.
“Ah, Dante,” he replied, his tone carrying the weight of our shared burden. “You’ve come.”
I nodded, moving to stand beside him as I took in the sight of my brother Marco, who was talking with Ma as if nothing had happened.
“Dad, you alright?” I glanced at him, taking in the pallor of his skin, the hollowness beneath his sharp eyes. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
He raised an eyebrow at me, a poor attempt at his usual stern facade. “Your concern is misplaced,” he replied, his fingers tapping out a restless rhythm on the armrest.
I ignored his deflection. “You’re no good to anyone if you don’t take care of yourself.”
“And who will take care of things while I’m resting, Dante?” His voice held an edge, a subtle challenge that didn’t go unnoticed.
“He’s right, Enzo,” my mom’s voice cut from across the room. “You need to look after yourself.”
She was still angry with my father, but she was worried about him. She was always worried about him.
The tension in the room spiked, and I couldn’t help but let out a dry laugh. “I can handle things, Dad,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “That’s why you trained me, isn’t it?”
His gaze hardened, even as his shoulders sagged further. “If you could handle things, your brother wouldn’t be here.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Marco cut in. “This isn’t Dante’s fault, Dad,” he said defensively. His eyes, though clouded by pain medication, were sharp and determined. “You know as well as anyone that this was a risk I took willingly. That every risk I take for this family is one I take willingly.”
“Yes,” my father replied, his voice firm but quiet. “A risk you shouldn’t have had to take.”
Marco didn’t have a response for that. He knew, just as we all did, that my father carried the guilt of our actions, our mistakes, on his own broad shoulders. He saw every wound we suffered as a personal failure.
And he had every right to be angry with me.
This was on me.
And whatever else happened…well, I had to fix this.
No matter what.