Chapter 87 - The Purple Line
Dante took a step backward, terrified of his own monstrous appearance. His coat was torn, his hands were crimson with fresh blood, and the air around him smelled of cordite, copper, and death. He did not want her to see him like this—as the butcher, the crime lord, the demon of Mulberry Street.
He dropped to one knee, keeping his hands low, his head bowed.
"Sofia..." he whispered, his voice cracking with an unbearable weight of grief and remorse. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to see this."
Sofia did not run away.
She walked toward him slowly, her small sneakers making soft splashing sounds in the shallow puddles on the concrete. She bypassed the broken bodies on the floor without looking down. She stopped right in front of Dante’s kneeling figure.
With infinite gentleness, Sofia reached out her small hand and touched Dante’s cheek. Her fingers were cold, but her touch was lighter than a feather. She wiped a smudge of soot and blood from his cheekbone.
Then, she looked past him, toward where Maya was struggling to sit up against the pillar, holding her bruised ribs and coughing weakly.
Sofia took two steps toward Maya, knelt down beside her, and wrapped her small arms around the waitress's neck. She buried her face into the curve of Maya’s throat.
Maya’s arms closed around the child, pulling her close, burying her face in Sofia’s hair as silent, shuddering sobs wracked her bruised body. "You're safe," Maya wept, her voice broken. "You're safe, Sofia. We're safe."
Dante approached them on his knees, his massive frame trembling. He carefully placed his arms around both of them, creating an impenetrable wall of iron and wool to shield them from the cold night wind that whipped through the broken warehouse doors.
For the first time in years, the child pulled back slightly from Maya’s neck, looked into Maya’s bruised, beautiful face, and then looked into Dante’s bloodshot eyes.
Sofia parted her lips. Her breath came out in a tiny puff of white vapor in the freezing cold.
"Home," Sofia said.
It was not a whisper. It was not a broken syllable. It was a clear, unmistakable word, filled with the warmth of a life reclaiming its voice.
Maya gasped, a fresh torrent of tears spilling over her lashes as she pressed her forehead against Sofia’s. "Yes, my love," Maya cried softly. "Home. We’re going home."
May you like
Dante bowed his head against Sofia’s shoulder, a single tear cutting a clean path through the soot on his face. "Yes, Sofia," he swore softly, his voice thick with emotion. "Home."
***
