CHAPTER FIVE #2
An investigation was already underway. Uncle Sal was standing at the head of the massive mahogany dining table, his face a thunderous mask of rage as he interrogated three trembling lieutenants.
Questions needed answers, and they needed them immediately.
Who was the spy? How had their enemies known which obscure route Dante’s car would be taking from the port?
And most terrifyingly how deep did the betrayal actually run within their own ranks?
In the private study down the hall, the atmosphere was different.
The velvet curtains were drawn tight against the night. Dante sat on the edge of a plush leather Chesterfield sofa, his ruined shirt removed, the firelight from the hearth casting long shadows across the lean, hard muscle of his chest and arms.
His mother, Concetta Fazzari, was pacing the length of the Persian rug. The formidable matriarch, usually a paragon of devout, stoic control, was frantic. Her dark eyes were wide with worry, her hands clutching a rosary so tightly her knuckles were white.
"I told you the port officials were dogs, Dante! I told you!" Concetta scolded, though her voice was trembling with maternal terror. "You could have been killed. You could have bled to death in the street like an animal!"
"I am fine, Ma," Dante said, his tone carrying that familiar, detached patience he reserved only for her.
Standing over him was Dr. Arcuri, the estate’s private physician.
The elderly, bespectacled doctor had seen decades of mafia violence, patching up bullet holes and knife wounds in basements and back rooms for three generations of Fazzaris.
But as he carefully unwrapped the thick white bandages from Dante’s side, he stopped.
Dr. Arcuri pushed his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose, leaning in close under the warm lamplight. He stared at the pristine, perfectly aligned sutures binding the torn muscle and skin together.
"Incredible," Dr. Arcuri murmured, his voice hushed with genuine professional awe. He looked up at Dante, his brow furrowed. "This work... I haven't seen anything like this outside of a world-class operating theater. Did you actually go to a hospital?"
Standing by the fireplace, pouring himself a stiff glass of scotch, Zoran paused. He looked over at Dante.
Dante caught his second-in-command’s eye. The sheer absurdity of the previous night—the tiny, minimalist apartment, the lack of respect, the gorgeous woman threatening to throw him out onto the street if he didn't cooperate—came rushing back to the surface.
"We saw a doctor," Dante admitted, his voice smooth, a faint edge of amusement curling around the words. "Just not at a hospital."
Dr. Arcuri shook his head, lightly dabbing a swab of antiseptic around the edges of the wound.
"Well, whoever treated you is a master. The tension on the stitches is perfect.
The tissue approximation is flawless. With this kind of clean work, the healing process will be cut in half.
It likely won't even leave a noticeable scar. "
As the doctor continued his work, applying a fresh, sterile dressing, Dante found his thoughts drifting away from the assassination attempt, away from the mole in his organization, and drifting back to the top floor of that unassuming building.
He thought of the gorgeous, prickly doctor who had patched him up.
He remembered the fierce, uncompromising intelligence in her pale blue eyes.
He had spent his entire life surrounded by people who bent to his will, people who sought to appease him, flatter him, or run from him.
He had always assumed doctors, in particular, were supposed to be warm, gentle, soothing presences—soft voices, kind words, endless comfort.
She had been none of those things. She had been hard-edged, blunt, and aggressively dismissive. She had looked at the most dangerous man in Italy and seen nothing of value. She had treated his agonizing injury with the mechanical annoyance of a mechanic fixing a broken radiator.
And yet, sitting there in the opulent safety of his fortress, Dante couldn't help but find the memory incredibly inexplicably funny. The sheer audacity of her telling him to "do his job and get out" echoed in his mind.
He looked over at Zoran. Zoran, leaning against the mantle, was clearly thinking along the exact same lines. The large enforcer raised his glass of scotch in a silent, highly amused toast to the memory of the female doctor.
Dante let out a breath that turned into a soft, genuine chuckle.
A real smile—not the calculated charm, not the razor-sharp smirk he used to intimidate, but a true, unguarded smile—broke across his face, lighting up his pale green eyes and transforming his harsh features into something startlingly human.
The sound of his laughter brought the pacing Concetta to an immediate halt.
She turned sharply, her black skirts swishing around her ankles. "What?" Concetta demanded, her dark eyes darting between Dante and Zoran. "What on earth are you two laughing about? Your car was blown to pieces, you were shot, and you are sitting there laughing?"
But as she stepped closer to the sofa, the anger drained instantly from her face, replaced by an expression of shock.
Concetta stared at her son. She stopped breathing for a long, second.
It had been eight years. Eight years since Flora Angelini had bled out on the floor of a restaurant, taking Dante’s soul with her.
For eight agonizing years, Concetta had watched her son morph from a passionate, loving boy into a cold, ruthless monster.
He had become a ghost haunting his own empire, devoid of warmth, devoid of joy, consumed by vengeance and power.
She had mourned him as deeply as she had mourned Flora.
And yet, right now, Dante was smiling. A real, unguarded smile that reached all the way to his icy eyes.
Concetta’s hands began to tremble. The rosary slipped slightly in her grip. She didn't know what had happened in the alleyways of Rome last night. But looking at the life that had suddenly, inexplicably sparked in her son's eyes, she found herself desperate to know what happened.