Chapter 15
Dante
Fifteen Years Ago
The school bell rang hours ago, dismissing students for the remainder of the day. Mom usually picks me up by four, but it's almost seven now, and she's still nowhere to be seen.
She's just working late, I tell myself, justifying why she might leave me here without a text or call. Every message I've sent her has gone undelivered, and every call has gone straight to voicemail—both common things when she's running point on a job for Don Vito.
Another ten minutes pass, then twenty, before a black Suburban pulls up to the curb in front of me. The rear passenger door opens and out climbs a tall man with dark hair. "Dante Mancini?"
"Who are you?" I question, hesitant to give this stranger any personal information.
"My name is Vittore Rosso, but you can call me Vito."
"You're my mom's boss." I state, confused as to why he's picking me up. "Where's my mom?"
Vito kneels in front of me on the pavement, his eyes soft as he rests a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, son. Your mother is dead. Come with me, and I'll make sure you have everything you need."
I hear the words, but I don't fully process them until I'm sitting in the back of the Escalade. The interior is warm, too warm, as I ride in the back seat next to Don Vito. He doesn't speak, nor does the driver who takes us farther away from familiarity with each street he turns down.
Vito's words reverberate inside my head, crashing against the inside of my skull with every turn of the car: "I'm sorry, son, your mother is dead."
It can't be possible. She was alive this morning. She dropped me off for school and promised she'd be here to pick me up! He's lying. He has to be lying. Mom can't be dead—she just can't.
She's the only family I have.
My mouth goes dry, the warmth of the backseat turning stifling as my breath catches in my throat.
Vito leans forward, muttering something in Italian to the driver before handing me a bottle of water.
I don't know how long we're on the road—it could be ten minutes or ten hours—but eventually the car comes to a stop outside the hospital.
Vito speaks, but the words are lost on me, nothing but nonsensical noise as he leads me inside. A man in scrubs leads us to an elevator, taking us down into the cold bowels of the hospital. Any sense of heat is sucked out of my body the moment the elevator doors open to the morgue.
The man in scrubs leads us around the corner to a plexiglass window, where we're met with my mother's lifeless body on display, nothing but a thin white sheet covering her.
I take a step forward, but realization quickly settles over me. It doesn't matter how close I get; Mom is still dead. It doesn't matter if I'm looking at her through a window or if I'm in the damn autopsy room with her—dead is dead.
Hands clenched into fists, I turn away from the window and head back to the elevator, jaw clenched to keep from crying.
"Dante." Vito calls.
I don't reply. He gave orders that killed my mother.
"Dante." He calls again, this time more sternly.
I still don't reply, jamming my finger into the elevator button, hoping to get as far away from this place as possible. Vito doesn't follow me into the elevator, but he's there when the doors open on the upper floor. He stands with his arms crossed, nothing but pity shadowing his eyes.
I hate being pitied.
His look ignites my anger, bringing back a fraction of the heat I felt in the back of his Suburban. The words come out as a growl, my voice barely recognizable when I speak. "You killed my mother."
"You're angry," Vito says calmly, hands up as if he's surrendering. Confidently, he takes a step in my direction. "That's normal. A young man your age having lost the only family he has left—hell, I'd be angry too. In fact, I am angry. Your mother was one of my best."
He pauses, studying my face.
"Help me help you, son. Come with me. Let me explain what happened, let me tell you who did this to her, and if you want—I'll teach you how to avenge her."
"Why?"
Vito looks confused, like he's not used to being questioned. "Why?"
"Why do you want to help me?" It seems like a reasonable enough question given the circumstances.
Vito kneels in front of me for the second time today.
"Your mother told me a lot about you. She and I—we sort of had an agreement, you see.
When you're older, you're going to work for me, and in exchange, I protect you.
I want to help you use your anger for good—use it against the people who took her from us. "
I stare at him for a long moment, this man who holds my entire future in his hands. The man whose orders got my mother killed, but who's also the only person offering me a way forward.
"What if I say no?"
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or respect. "Then you say no. But Dante, you're thirteen years old with no family, no money, and no prospects. The streets of New York aren't kind to boys like you. I'm offering you a home, an education, and when you're ready—a purpose."
"A purpose?"
"Justice for your mother. Training to make sure what happened to her never happens to anyone else under my protection." His voice hardens. "The men who killed her are still out there. I can't bring her back, but I can give you the tools to make sure they pay for what they did."
I look back toward the morgue, toward where my mother's body lies cold and still, and feel something settle in my chest. Something hard and determined and angry.
"When do we start?"
Vito's smile is grim but satisfied. "Right now, son. Right now."
I shake off the memory as I drive Sofia back to the Greenhouse. That day changed everything for me—the day I learned that loyalty comes with a price, but it also comes with protection. The day I learned that sometimes the person who destroys your old life is the same person who gives you a new one.
Vito kept his promise. He gave me a home, an education, and eventually, justice for my mother. He became the father I never had, the mentor who shaped me into who I am today.
And now I'm supposed to choose between him and the girl sitting next to me, staring out the window like she's planning her next escape.
The girl who's making me question everything I thought I knew about loyalty and duty and what it means to protect someone.
The girl who's making me wonder if there's a difference between justice and revenge.
Some days I wish I was still that thirteen-year-old kid who thought the world was simple, who thought there were clear lines between right and wrong, between loyalty and betrayal.
But then I look at Sofia, and I realize that maybe some things are worth questioning everything for.
Even if I'm not sure I'm brave enough to do it.