Chapter 38
Dante
The Costello warehouse smells like gunpowder and blood, with an underlying scent of fear that seems to have soaked into the concrete walls. Three days since we hit them, and we're still doing cleanup and damage assessment. Three days since Sofia left, but who's counting?
"Clear on the east side," Marco's voice crackles through my earpiece as I move through what used to be their weapons storage.
Most of the good stuff was already moved out before we arrived—the Costellos aren't completely stupid—but there's still enough evidence here to piece together their operation.
"Copy that," I respond, photographing serial numbers on the remaining rifles.
Vito wants a complete inventory of what they had, what they moved, and where it might have gone.
Standard procedure after taking down a rival operation, but it feels different when you're the one who started the war by breaking their heir's neck.
Not that I regret it. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
I'm cataloging ammunition when my phone buzzes with a text from Elena: Found something interesting in Kieran's office. You're going to want to see this.
I make my way to what used to be the administrative section of the warehouse, stepping over debris and trying not to think about how Sofia would probably have some sharp observation about the Costellos' choice in interior decorating. She always did have something to say about everything.
Elena is crouched behind an overturned desk, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, examining what looks like a hidden safe built into the floor.
"Well, well," I say, approaching carefully. "Look what our sharpshooter found."
"This sharpshooter also found the combination," Elena replies without looking up, her fingers dancing over the digital keypad. "Kieran wasn't as smart as he thought he was. Used his dead brother's birthday."
The safe clicks open with a soft beep, revealing stacks of cash, several passports, and what looks like a ledger filled with names and numbers.
"Shit, Elena. Good work."
"I have my moments." She starts photographing everything before we move it. "Though I have to say, rifling through a dead man's secrets wasn't exactly how I planned to spend my Wednesday."
"Better than paperwork, right?"
"Marginally." She glances up at me with a slight smile. "You're trying very hard to seem normal, you know."
"What do you mean?"
"The jokes, the banter. You've been doing it all week. Very entertaining, but also very transparent."
I grunt and focus on helping her extract the contents of the safe. Elena's always been too perceptive for her own good.
Marco appears in the doorway, surveying the scene. "What'd you find?"
"Costello's insurance policy, looks like," Elena says, holding up the ledger. "Names, accounts, what appears to be blackmail material. Could be useful."
"Elena's got a real talent for this stuff," I comment, partly to deflect attention from my obvious emotional state and partly because it's true. "Maybe you should recruit her full-time, Marco."
Something flickers across Marco's expression—surprise, maybe, or something more complicated. "Elena's got her own life to worry about."
"Do I?" Elena asks, raising an eyebrow. "Because I'm starting to think I might be better suited for this kind of work than whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing with my life."
The tension between them is subtle but unmistakable. Marco's jaw tightens slightly, and Elena's smile has an edge to it that suggests there's more to this conversation than I'm hearing.
"We should get this back to Vito," Marco says, clearly wanting to change the subject.
"Agreed." Elena starts packing everything into an evidence bag with practiced efficiency. "I'll write up the report tonight."
We finish the sweep in relative silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. By the time we're done, the sun is setting, painting the warehouse windows orange and red. Another day closer to whatever the Costellos are planning for retaliation, another day further from Sofia.
As we head toward the cars, I fall into step beside Marco. We've worked together long enough that I know his moods, and right now he seems distracted, preoccupied with something beyond the usual job stress.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Fine. Just tired."
"Uh-huh." I wait a beat, then decide to go for it. "Tell me where she is, Marco."
He doesn't even pretend not to know who I'm talking about. "You know I can't do that."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." Marco stops at his car, keys in hand. "Dante, look—"
"I'm not going to storm in there and drag her back. I just want to know she's safe."
"She's safe. You have my word on that."
"That's not the same as seeing it for myself."
Marco's expression softens slightly. "I know. But this isn't about what you need right now. It's about what she needs."
The truth of it stings, but I can't argue with it. Doesn't make it any easier to swallow.
"How long?" I ask.
"As long as it takes."
"That's what everyone keeps saying. It's a bullshit answer."
"It's the only answer any of us have."
I want to push harder, to demand more information, to do something other than stand here feeling helpless. But I can see in Marco's face that he's not going to budge, and honestly, I respect him for it. If Vito asked me to keep a secret, I'd keep it too.
Doesn't mean I have to like it.
"I'm heading home," I mutter, fishing my own keys from my pocket.
"You want to grab dinner?"
"Nah. I'm good."
The drive to my apartment takes longer than usual, thanks to rush hour traffic that gives me too much time to think. I haven't been back to my place since this whole thing started—since Vito assigned me to watch Sofia and my entire world shifted on its axis.
The building looks exactly the same, which is somehow both comforting and depressing. My apartment is on the third floor, at the end of a hallway that smells like cooking oil and other people's lives. I unlock the door and step into a space that feels like it belongs to someone else.
It's not much—one bedroom, small kitchen, living room with a couch that's seen better days. But it's mine, or it was mine, before I started sleeping in guest rooms and cars and wherever Sofia happened to be.
There's a layer of dust on everything, mail piled up on the counter, the kind of stale air that accumulates when a place sits empty. I open a few windows to get some circulation going, then head to the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge.
The first sip tastes like freedom and loneliness in equal measure.
I settle onto the couch and look around at this life I built for myself. It's simple, functional, without much personality or warmth. The kind of place a man lives when he doesn't expect to bring anyone home, when his real life happens somewhere else.
When did I stop thinking of this as home? When did Vito's house become the place I belonged, and by extension, when did Sofia become the person who made that house feel like something more than just my boss's headquarters?
The beer goes down easy, so I get another one. And then another.
By the time I'm on my fourth, the sun has set completely and the apartment is dark except for the streetlight coming through the windows. I should eat something, should probably call it a night and try to get some sleep.
Instead, I open another beer and settle deeper into the couch, letting the alcohol numb the sharp edges of missing someone who might never come back.
Somewhere out there, Sofia is sitting by herself, deciding whether loving me is worth the price of admission to this fucked-up world. And here I am, drinking alone in an apartment that feels like a tomb, wondering if I even deserve to be part of that decision.
The beer tastes bitter now, but I drink it anyway. Because tomorrow I'll wake up and she'll still be gone, and I'll still have to pretend that's okay.
But tonight, I can sit in the dark and let myself feel exactly how not okay it really is.