Chapter 27
DANTE
Sleep doesn’t come for me easily, despite how hard I try.
Scarlett is still curled against my side, one hand rests over my chest, right above my heart, as if she needs the reassurance that it’s still there—that I’m still here.
The weight of her hand holds me down to the bed while my eyes trace the shadows crawling across the ceiling, stretching and shrinking as the night drags on. I count the hours instead of sleeping.
One a.m.
The assault begins at six.
The knowledge sits in my chest like a time bomb, impossible to ignore. I’m constantly reminded that every second that passes pulls us closer to violence, to blood, and to whatever pieces of myself I might not get back. Dawn isn’t relief—it’s a deadline.
Carefully, I withdraw myself out of bed, moving slow enough that the mattress doesn’t shift.
She needs this rest more than I do. Whatever happens in a few hours will take everything she has, and I won’t steal even a minute of peace from her now.
I pull on my pants and a shirt, leaving it unbuttoned.
I walk toward the door and pause at the doorway. For a long moment, I just watch her sleep.
Her face is soft in the dim light, unguarded in a way she never allows herself to be when she’s awake. I try to commit to mind, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her hair spills across the pillow, the faint lines of frown between her brows that are visible even in sleep.
She told me she loves me tonight. She hadn’t stuttered, but said it out loud, like it was a truth she’d already accepted and needed to share with me.
I still don’t know what I did to deserve that. To deserve her. I know the things I’ve done, the man I’ve been, the violence that clings to me no matter how hard I try to outrun it. Love feels like something meant for better men.
But I’m going to try.
For however long I have left—hours, days, a lifetime—I’m going to spend it trying to be worthy of the woman sleeping in that bed.
Even if it costs me everything.
The hallway is dark and quiet as I make my way downstairs.
Most of my men are catching whatever crumb of sleep they can before we move out, but the house isn’t entirely still.
I can hear murmured conversations from the security room, the occasional crackle of a radio, and the sounds of people preparing for war.
I head to the armory first because that’s what I always do before a mission. Old habits cultivated over twenty years of violence.
The room smells like gun oil and metal. I turn on the lights and stand there for a moment, taking in the rows of weapons mounted on the walls. Rifles, shotguns, pistols, knives. Enough firepower to start a small war, which is exactly what we’re about to do.
I built this armory about three years ago, and back then, I never imagined I’d use it to save my son. How ironic.
I start with my own weapons, the ones I’ll carry into the cathedral. My primary Beretta, cleaned and loaded. Backup piece for my ankle. Combat knife that’s been with me since I was nineteen and stupid enough to think I was immortal.
I check each one carefully, breaking them down and reassembling them, making sure every component is perfect. The ritual is soothing in its familiarity, giving my hands something to do while my mind runs through the assault plan for the hundredth time.
Four entry points. Sixty men divided into teams. Marco leading the extraction unit through the basement tunnel while I draw Viktor’s attention at the sacristy. Backup teams ready to breach if the primary assault stalls.
It’s a solid plan. As solid as any plan can be when you’re facing a traitor who knows all your tactics.
The thing that keeps eating at me is that Viktor helped design most of our assault protocols. He knows how I think, how I move, how I react under pressure. Every advantage I thought I had is compromised because I trusted the wrong person for fifteen years.
But I try not to let it bother me as I finish with my weapons and move on to the tactical gear. Body armor that can stop most handgun rounds. Comms equipment tested and retested. Spare magazines loaded and positioned for quick access.
Everything is in order. So why do I feel like I’m forgetting something?
I’m still standing there, staring at the weapons wall, when I hear footsteps in the corridor. Soft, shuffling steps that I recognize immediately.
Rosa appears in the doorway, wrapped in a heavy shawl despite the warmth of the house. The bruises on her face have darkened overnight, showing signs of healing. But she looks exhausted and fragile, nothing like the formidable woman who helped raise me.
“You should be resting,” I tell her.
“So should you.” She studies me with those sharp eyes that have always seen me. “But here we both are.”
“I have work to do.”
“Si. So do I.” She beckons with one wrinkled hand. She seemed to have aged quickly these past few days. “Come. You can finish playing with your guns later.”
I want to argue and tell her I don’t have time for whatever she has in mind. But something in her expression stops me, a stern look that gives no room for argument, and so I find myself following her down the corridor toward the back of the house.
The chapel is small and hidden in a corner that most people forget exists.
Rosa has been using it since I was a child, lighting candles and saying prayers that I never understood and never tried to.
Religion was for people who needed comfort, and I learned early that comfort was a luxury men like me couldn’t afford.
The room glows with candlelight when we enter. Dozens of flames flickering on the altar and the small tables along the walls, filling the space with warmth and the smell of melting incense wax. The statue of Mary carrying an infant watches from her alcove, making the environment sacred.
Rosa crosses to the altar and kneels on the worn cushion there. I stay in the doorway, uncomfortable in this sacred space that I’ve never felt I belonged in.
“Come,” she says without turning around. “Kneel.”
“Rosa, I don’t—”
“I have been praying for your soul since you were a boy, Dante Moretti.” Her voice is firm despite its age.
“I watched you become something hard and cold because that’s what your father demanded.
I watched you kill your first man at sixteen and never shed a tear.
I watched you close yourself off from everything soft and good because you thought it made you weak. ”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
“Today you fight for your son. For the woman you love. For something beyond power and control.” She turns to look at me, and her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “Today I pray that God protects you as you protect your family. But I need you to pray with me.”
“I don’t remember how.”
“Then kneel beside me and I will show you.”
I stand there for a long moment, wrestling with myself. The last time I prayed was at my mother’s funeral, mumbling words I didn’t believe while my father stood stone-faced beside me. After that, I decided that if there was a God, he wasn’t interested in men like me.
But Rosa is watching me with that patient expectation, and I think about Luca. About how scared he must be right now, wondering why his parents haven’t come for him. About how much I’m willing to do, willing to sacrifice, to bring him home safe.
If there’s even a chance that prayer might help, isn’t it worth trying?
So I cross the small room and lower myself onto the cushion beside Rosa. My knees protest against the hard floor and I feel awkward and exposed in a way that I hate. But Rosa reaches over and takes my hand, her grip surprisingly strong, and begins to pray in Italian.
The words wash over me, familiar from childhood even though I stopped listening to them decades ago. Ave Maria, piena di grazia. Il Signore è con te.
I close my eyes and try to find something inside myself that might pass for faith. What comes instead is desperation. Raw, unfiltered need that rises up from somewhere deep in my chest.
Please. If anyone is listening. Please let me save my son. Let me bring him home safe. I’ll do anything. Give anything. Just let him live.
It’s not the kind of prayer that Rosa would approve of. But it’s honest, maybe the first honest prayer I’ve ever said, and when I open my eyes I feel different. Lighter, like I’ve set down a weight I didn’t know I was carrying.
Rosa squeezes my hand and smiles at me, and for a moment I see the young woman she must have been before life hardened her too. Before watching children like me grow into monsters.
“Go,” she says softly. “Save your boy. And come back to us.”
I kiss her forehead and leave the chapel without looking back.
The next two hours fly in final preparations.
I meet with my team leaders in the war room, going over every detail of the assault until I’m certain they could execute the plan even with their eyes closed.
I check in with our intelligence contacts, confirming Viktor’s position at the cathedral and the number of men he has with him. Eighteen confirmed, possibly more.
Eighteen men between me and my son. I’ve faced worse odds.
At four a.m., the first teams start loading into vehicles. I can hear them from here, weapons being checked, body armor secured, quiet conversations and occasional nervous laughs.
Marco finds me in the armory around four-thirty, already suited up in tactical gear. He looks as tired as I feel, deep shadows under his eyes, but there’s stubbornness in his expression that I recognize. The look of a man ready to do whatever it takes.
“The teams are loaded and ready to move,” he reports. “Everyone knows their positions.”
“Casualties?”
“We’re looking at maybe ten percent if everything goes according to plan. Higher if Viktor has surprises waiting.”