CHAPTER 10
DANTE
I stood in the narrow alleyway behind the building, the collar of my dark jacket turned up against the wind.
"The front entrance is covered," Silas murmured over the comms, his voice a low hum in my ear. "No movement in the bakery. The target is upstairs. Thermal shows one signature. He’s alone."
"Move in," I ordered.
I didn't bother with the fire escape. I walked to the heavy steel door at the back of the building, pulled my weapon, and shot the deadbolt twice. The suppressed rounds were barely a whisper against the noise of the city traffic. I kicked the door open and stepped into the dark stairwell.
Marcus Vance was not a soldier. He was a man who lived his life in spreadsheets and offshore routing numbers. He wouldn't have armed guards. He wouldn't have a panic room. He was just a coward who thought he could hide behind a bakery.
I took the stairs silently, my men falling into step behind me.
When we reached the second-floor landing, I didn't knock. Silas hit the door with a breaching ram, the wood splintering inward with a loud, violent crack.
We flooded the small apartment.
Marcus was sitting at a cheap folding table in the corner of the living room, surrounded by empty takeout boxes and three glowing laptops. He jumped so hard his rolling chair tipped backward, sending him crashing to the linoleum floor.
He scrambled backward like a crab, his eyes wide, his hands thrown up in surrender.
"I didn't take it!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "I swear to God, Morretti, I didn't take a dime of the Russian money!"
I lowered my weapon, walking slowly across the room. The apartment smelled like stale sweat and fear.
"Get up, Marcus," I said, my voice perfectly calm.
He didn't get up. He pressed his back against the peeling wallpaper, hyperventilating. He was balding, exactly as Sienna had described, and his cheap dress shirt was soaked under the arms.
"Rossi forced me to set up the accounts," Marcus babbled, the words spilling out of him in a frantic rush. "He said if I didn't do it, the Petrovs would kill me anyway. He took the ten million, Dante. He took it all. I just routed it. I didn't touch it."
I stopped two feet away from him, looking down at his pathetic, trembling form.
My wife had delivered this man to me. She had sat in a room, terrified for her sister, and instead of breaking, she had analyzed the logistics of a ten-million-dollar theft and handed me the exact thread I needed to pull to unravel her father’s empire.
It was brilliant. She was brilliant.
"Where did you route it?" I asked.
"Cayman Islands," Marcus choked out. "Three different shell companies. But he transferred it out this morning. He moved it to a private bank in Zurich. I swear, that’s all I know. He’s trying to buy his way into a non-extradition country."
I glanced at the laptops on the table. Lines of code and banking interfaces filled the screens.
"Silas," I said, not taking my eyes off Marcus. "Take the hard drives. Wipe the servers."
"Done, boss." Silas moved to the table, pulling cables with practiced efficiency.
"Dante, please," Marcus begged, tears welling in his eyes. "I gave you what you want. I told you where the money went. Let me go. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again."
I crouched down, resting my forearms on my knees, bringing myself to eye level with him.
"You helped Antonio Rossi steal ten million dollars from the Petrov bratva," I said slowly. "And then you helped him run, leaving his nineteen-year-old daughter in Switzerland to be tortured by the men he stole from."
Marcus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I didn't know about the girl. I swear."
"Ignorance is not an excuse, Marcus. It is just another failure." I stood up. "You don't get to disappear."
"No, wait—"
I didn't shoot him. I didn't need to. I turned my back and walked toward the door.
"Silas," I called out over my shoulder. "Put him in the trunk. We are taking him to the Brooklyn warehouse. See if his memory improves when he isn't looking at a laptop."
"Yes, boss."
I walked down the stairs and out into the alleyway. The cold air felt good against my skin.
I pulled my encrypted phone from my pocket and dialed Luca. He picked up on the first ring.
"Tell me you have good news," Luca said, the sound of an engine roaring in the background.
"We have the accountant. He confirmed the money moved to Zurich this morning. Rossi is liquidating." I walked toward the waiting SUV. "Status on the Petrov hits?"
"Carmine’s team burned the Queens distribution center to the ground twenty minutes ago," Luca reported, the satisfaction clear in his voice. "Enzo is hitting the Bronx location now. The Russians are bleeding, Dante. They are pulling their men back to protect their remaining assets."
"Good. Keep the pressure on. I want them so focused on putting out fires they don't have time to look for Rossi."
"And the father-in-law?" Luca asked.
"He’s running out of places to hide." I opened the door of the SUV and slid into the back seat. "I’m heading back to the estate. Call me when Enzo is finished."
I ended the call and leaned my head back against the leather headrest.
The adrenaline of the raid was fading, replaced by the familiar, heavy exhaustion that accompanied syndicate politics. But beneath the exhaustion, a different kind of energy was humming through my veins.
I was going home to Sienna.
The word home felt strange. The Morretti estate had always been a fortress. A place to sleep, a place to strategize, a place to keep my enemies out. It had never been a home.
But now, she was there.
She was sitting in my guest wing, wearing my clothes, armed with a fireplace poker, waiting for me to bring her the head of the man who had betrayed her.
I looked out the window as the SUV navigated the heavy traffic of the Queensboro Bridge.
Sienna Rossi was supposed to be a liability. A pretty, sharp-tongued distraction I could lock in a room and ignore while I secured the Brooklyn docks. Instead, she had proven herself to be the most dangerous asset I possessed. She didn't flinch from the violence. She weaponized it.
When the SUV finally pulled through the iron gates of the estate, the sun had fully set. The perimeter was heavily guarded, the floodlights casting stark shadows across the manicured lawns.
I walked through the front doors, handing my coat to Fridge, who was standing his usual post.
"Everything quiet?" I asked him.
"Yes, boss. No movement on the perimeter. Elena took dinner up to the guest wing an hour ago."
I nodded, bypassing my study and walking straight up the grand staircase.
The hallway of the guest wing was silent. The two guards stationed outside her door stood at attention as I approached. I waved them away, dismissing them to the lower level. I didn't want an audience.
I stopped in front of the heavy oak door.
I didn't knock. I reached out and turned the brass handle.
The door was locked from the inside.
A slow, genuine smile touched my mouth. She had kept the barricade.
I knocked twice, a sharp, rhythmic rap against the wood.
"Sienna," I called out softly.
I heard the immediate rustle of movement on the other side. A few seconds later, the heavy scraping sound of the leather armchair being dragged across the floor echoed in the quiet hallway.
The deadbolt clicked.
The door opened a few inches. Sienna peered out, her dark hair still piled in that messy knot, the oversized black sweater slipping off one shoulder. She was holding the brass fire iron in her right hand, her grip tight.
She looked at me, her eyes scanning my face, my shirt, my hands, checking for new blood.
When she found none, her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. She pulled the door open wider, stepping back to let me in.
I walked into the room, the heat of the space immediately wrapping around me. Clara was asleep on the massive bed, curled into a tight ball under the duvet.
Sienna quietly closed the door, setting the brass iron against the wall.
"Did you find him?" she asked, keeping her voice low so she wouldn't wake her sister.
"I found Marcus," I confirmed, stopping in the center of the room. "He is currently enjoying the hospitality of my men in Brooklyn. He confirmed your theory. Your father moved the ten million to Zurich this morning."
Sienna let out a slow breath, crossing her arms over her chest. "He’s going to run to Europe."
"He is going to try." I took a step closer to her. "The Petrovs are currently dealing with three massive fires in their distribution network. They are distracted. We have the advantage."
She looked up at me. The exhaustion in her eyes mirrored my own, but there was a sharp, undeniable pride there too. She had helped. She had contributed to the survival of her family.
"You listened to me," she whispered, as if the concept were entirely foreign to her.
"You gave me actionable intelligence, Sienna. I would be a fool to ignore it." I reached out, my knuckles brushing lightly against the soft cashmere covering her shoulder. "You have a very dangerous mind."
"I had a very bad teacher," she corrected, a bitter edge to her voice. "My father taught me how to spot a liar when I was ten years old."
"His mistake." I let my hand slide up her neck, my fingers resting against the warm skin just beneath her jaw. "My gain."
She didn't pull away. She leaned into my touch, a microscopic surrender that sent a jolt of pure heat straight to my core.
"What happens now?" she asked, her gaze dropping to my mouth.
"Now, we wait for Marcus to give us the exact account routing numbers," I murmured, my thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. "And then I take everything Antonio Rossi stole, and I leave him with nothing."
Sienna looked back up into my eyes. The sarcasm, the fear, the defensive armor—it was all gone.
"Burn him to the ground, Dante," she whispered, her voice a dark, beautiful demand.
I pulled her flush against my chest, my mouth crashing down on hers.
She didn't hesitate. She opened for me instantly, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. The kiss was desperate, fueled by adrenaline, exhaustion, and the undeniable, lethal partnership we had just forged in the blood of our enemies.
I backed her against the wall, my hands gripping her hips, lifting her slightly. Her legs wrapped around my waist on instinct, her mouth moving hungrily against mine as a soft, ragged sound escaped her.
I had married a pawn.
But I was holding a queen.