42. CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Dante
The storm that came the next morning was not the one she expected.
It began with a single text alert, Marco’s fingers flying over the phone as he announced, “Two black vans, unmarked, five minutes from the south approach. Vescari, by the way they move.”
Dante was already up, voice a blade. “Positions.”
The house contracted to its battle-ready shape, men slotting into hidden alcoves, lines of sight overlapping in a grid Alina had never seen in daylight. She stood in the hallway, hands steady, heart not racing but alert. She was not afraid. She was ready.
Dante appeared at her side, gun in hand, eyes clear and wild. “If they breach the entry, you run for the panic room. The door will stay open for sixty seconds, then lock. You understand?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her, brief and almost bruising, then moved past.
The house felt wrong. It was too quiet, too still, and far too watchful. Every step was heavy with the truth of the interrogation: the breach hadn’t been a technological failure, but a loyalty one. Someone close had opened the door.
Dante hated the way the walls suddenly felt unfamiliar. He hated that every guard now looked like a potential suspect, and he hated, most of all, that Alina’s safety depended on people he could no longer trust.
Luca cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Boss… you’re thinking out loud.”
Dante didn’t answer. He couldn't. He was spiraling through thoughts of betrayal, blood, and the reality that someone under his own roof had tried to end Alina.
In the training room, Alina stretched her sore muscles, forcing herself to focus on her breathing.
But something was off. The air felt thin, sharp—a wrongness she couldn’t name.
When Dante appeared in the doorway, his shoulders were locked, his jaw tight, his eyes darker than she had ever seen them.
Her stomach tightened. “What happened?”
He walked to her, knelt, and took her hands. His touch wasn't gentle or rough; it was urgent. “Alina, someone inside this house helped that intruder.”
The air left her lungs. Not Vescari. Not a stranger. Someone who lived here, walked these halls, and watched her every day. Her fingers tightened around his. “Who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“But you will.”
She saw the storm gathering behind his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”
Marco burst into the room, breathless. “Boss. We found something.”
Dante stood instantly. “What?”
Marco held out a tablet. “Security logs. Someone disabled the east wing sensors from inside.”
“Who?”
Marco hesitated, his gaze flickering to Dante.
Dante’s voice dropped, lethal and low. “Say it.”
“It was Matteo.”
Silence. Cold, sharp, and impossible to believe. Matteo. His right hand. His childhood friend. The man who had taken bullets for him since before he was old enough to shave.
Alina’s breath hitched. “Dante…”
He didn’t move, blink, or breathe. He stared at the tablet as if it were a weapon.
“Dante,” she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head once. “Don’t be.”
“This hurts.”
“Yes.”
“You trusted him.”
“Yes.”
“And he—”
“Yes.”
His voice cracked on the last word. She squeezed his arm, and he finally looked at her. Beneath the fury, she saw raw grief—not for the loss of a soldier, but for the betrayal of family.
He turned to Luca. “Where is he?”
“Still in the house.”
“Bring him to the war room.”
Dante stood rigid, every muscle coiled. Alina stepped closer, though he tried to push her away. “I need you to stay here,” he commanded.
“No.” Her eyes didn't waver. “I’m not hiding. Not from this. Not from him.”
He exhaled sharply, searching her face before finally nodding. “Fine. But you stay behind me.”
“Deal.”