CHAPTER ONE #2
Dante stared at the basket as it stopped in front of him. The smell of baked bread, olive oil, and rosemary drifted up, curling into his lungs. He felt a sudden, violent constriction in his chest, a ghost reaching into his ribcage and squeezing his heart until it bled.
His pale eyes glazed over, the opulent dining room fading away, replaced by the warm, sunlit haze of a kitchen eight years ago.
Eight Years Ago.
She was humming.
It was an old Sicilian folk tune, the melody drifting softly through the open windows of the summer house. Dante, thirty years old and practically buzzing with the violent, coiled energy of a rising boss, stood in the doorway, just watching her.
Flora Angelini was petite, standing just a little over five feet tall, a delicate, storybook-small frame that made her look like she was carved from porcelain.
But she wasn’t fragile. She was grounded in a way Dante could never understand.
Her dark, gently wavy hair was tied back in a loose braid, escaping in soft tendrils around her rosy cheeks.
Her small hands were busy, expertly tying bundles of fresh basil and rosemary from the garden.
She didn't need to turn around to know he was there.
"If you stand there brooding much longer, you're going to scare the birds away, Dante," Flora said, her voice a soft, melodic tease.
Dante pushed off the doorframe, walking up behind her. He wrapped his long arms around her small waist, pulling her back against his chest, burying his face in her neck. She smelled like sweet earth, vanilla, and sunshine.
"I’m not brooding," he mumbled against her skin. "I'm admiring."
Flora giggled, a sound like a small silver bell, and turned in his arms. Her warm brown eyes looked up into his icy pale ones.
Where other women looked at him and saw the wealth, the danger, the intoxicating thrill of the mob, Flora just saw Dante.
The boy who used to scrape his knees climbing the olive trees. Her childhood sweetheart.
"You’re tense," she noted softly, reaching up. Her small thumbs smoothed over his cheekbones, ironing out the tight lines of his jaw. "Was it a bad meeting with Sal?"
"Just business, amore mio," Dante whispered, leaning into her touch.
It was a miracle, really. How the raging inferno inside of him, the anger and the ambition, extinguished the moment her skin touched his.
She was his sanctuary. The only clean thing in his filthy, blood-soaked world.
"I don't want to talk about it. I just want to look at you. "
Flora’s eyes crinkled with her smile. She possessed a gentleness that put the world at ease.
Even the hardened killers in Dante's crew softened when they spoke to her.
Children flocked to her legs; the stray cats in the alleyways practically guarded her door.
She wasn't naive to what Dante did—she knew the darkness he swam in—but she chose to be the light anyway.
"We have the family dinner tonight," she reminded him, fidgeting with the lapel of his shirt. "You have to promise me you won't fight with Fina. And you have to smile for my mother."
"I always smile for your mother," Dante said, kissing the tip of her nose. "And as long as you're sitting next to me, I won't kill my sister."
"Very generous of you, Don Fazzari."
He kissed her then, pouring all of his desperate, consuming love into the embrace.
They were to be married in two months. The families were elated.
It was the crowning joy of their intertwined histories.
Dante felt a fierce, protective possessiveness over her.
He would burn the world down to keep her safe.
He just didn't know that the fire was already lit.
The ambush happened during the toast.
It was a massive gathering at a private restaurant owned by Uncle Sal. Both the Fazzari and Angelini families were there, laughing, drinking, celebrating the upcoming nuptials. Giancarlo was in the middle of a booming, joyous speech, holding a glass of champagne high in the air.
Dante was sitting with his arm draped over the back of Flora’s chair. She was leaning into him, her hand resting warmly on his knee.
He remembered the exact sequence of events, a nightmare burned into his retinas frame by agonizing frame.
He remembered catching the eye of one of his trusted lieutenants, a man named Marco, who was edging toward the kitchen doors. Marco didn't look back at him. Marco looked at his shoes.
Then, the front windows exploded.
It wasn't a shatter; it was a detonation. Glass rained down like diamond shrapnel as the deafening, concussive roar of automatic gunfire ripped through the restaurant. The air instantly filled with the suffocating stench of sulfur and pulverized plaster. Screams erupted, visceral and terrified.
"Down!" Uncle Sal roared, flipping an oak table to create a barricade.
Dante's instincts, honed by years of violence, kicked in instantly. He reached for his weapon, twisting his lean body to cover Flora. He meant to pull her to the floor, to shield her with his own back.
But Flora was already moving.
She hadn't screamed. She hadn't panicked. In that fractured second, amidst the chaos of flying wood and tearing flesh, Flora had seen the shadow of a man stepping through the ruined window, raising a barrel directly at Dante's chest.
She didn't hesitate.
"Dante!"
She threw her delicate, storybook-small frame upwards, positioning herself between Dante and the shooter. Dante reached for her, his pale eyes widening in sheer unadulterated horror as he saw the muzzle flash.