Chapter 10 - The Sovereign's Wrath
Dante did not fire at Julian.
He did not pause to demand an apology, a document, or an explanation. In the split second between the gunshot and the echo, the tactical calculus of Dante Moretti’s mind stripped away three years of lies and locked onto a single, absolute imperative:
The child.
"Bruno! GO!" Dante roared.
The Cane Corso did not need a second command. The dog launched himself across the wooden slipway, clearing the ten feet between the dock and the brick tunnel in a single, terrifying leap, his claws tearing into the mud as he vanished back into the dark passage like an avenging demon.
Dante turned on his heel, his bare feet digging into the slick timber, sprinting after the mastiff with an explosive velocity that left Julian standing alone in the damp gloom of the vault.
He took the rising incline of the tunnel three paces at a time, his shoulders scraping against the weeping brick walls, his lungs burning with the sulfurous draft. The mud splashed across his trousers; his bare feet bled against jagged pebbles embedded in the clay, but he felt no pain.
He burst through the open walnut mechanism into the basement corridor.
The air in the servants' gallery was thick with the sharp, acrid reek of freshly burned cordite.
Dante did not slow down. He took the winding stone stairs to the ground level in four bounds, kicked the heavy fire door off its magnetic latch, and exploded out into the torrential fury of the storm.
The rain hit him like a physical blow, plastering his white linen shirt against his tattooed chest, blinding his vision for half a second.
Ahead, eighty yards through the thrashing rose bushes, the staff cottage stood in the dark.
The front door of the cottage hung open, swinging wildly on a broken hinge in the wind. Inside, in the warm amber glow of the ceramic rabbit nightlamp, a struggle was unfolding.
Dante hit the gravel path at a dead sprint.
Through the rain-streaked window of the cottage bedroom, he saw the scene:
Antonio stood in the center of the room, his dark suit coat soaked, his Glock 17 held in his right hand, smoke still curling from the barrel.
On the floor beside the bed, Elena lay crumpled against the brass frame, clutching her shoulder where dark crimson was spreading rapidly through the blue wool of her uniform, her teeth bared in a feral, weeping snarl as she tried to drag herself between the shooter and the crib.
And standing on the braided rag rug, holding her gold star-shaped pillow tightly against her chest, her blue satin bow soaked with rain that had blown through the broken windowpane, was Sophie.
Antonio raised his weapon.
His face was pale, his jaw clenched in the cold, remorseless panic of a traitor whose timeline had collapsed. "I'm sorry, Elena," Antonio whispered, his finger tightening on the trigger shoe. "The Don can't know."
CRASH.
The Cane Corso did not use the door.
Bruno came through the lower sash of the bedroom window in a catastrophic explosion of wood, splintered muntins, and flying glass shards. One hundred and thirty-five pounds of airborne fury slammed directly into Antonio’s right flank, the impact driving the lieutenant sideways across the room with the force of an oncoming truck.
The gun flew from Antonio’s hand, clattering harmlessly against the baseboard.
Antonio screamed—a high, tearing shriek of pure agony as Bruno’s jaws clamped onto his right shoulder, the massive dog pinning the two-hundred-pound man to the floorboards, shaking his head with savage, bone-crushing violence that splintered the pine beneath them.
Dante stepped through the ruined doorway.
He did not shout. He did not run.
He walked into the bedroom with the terrifying, unhurried cadence of an executioner arriving at the block. The rain dripped from his dark wavy hair, running in steady streams down his chest, washing the mud and blood from his bare feet onto the bedroom rug. His Kimber .45 hung at his side, the suppressor dripping with lake water.
"Off, Bruno," Dante murmured.
The dog released his hold instantly, stepping back two paces, his jowls dripping crimson, his chest heaving, his amber eyes pinned to the weeping, shattered man on the floor.
Antonio lay in his own blood, his right arm dangling uselessly, his face contorted in sheer, unadulterated terror as he looked up into the dead, glacial eyes of the man he had betrayed.
"Dante..." Antonio choked out, blood bubbling between his teeth. "Dante, listen to me... Cassani promised... they were going to give us the whole state..."
Dante looked down at him.
He didn't speak. He didn't offer a single word of rage. To offer words was to acknowledge that the traitor was still human.
Dante raised the Kimber .45.
Pfft.
The suppressed shot was barely louder than the snap of a dry branch in the storm.
Antonio went limp against the floorboards.
The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of the rain pouring through the shattered window and the ragged, shallow breathing of Elena on the floor.
Dante holstered the weapon behind his back.
He walked over to Elena, dropping to one knee in the puddle of water and glass. His calloused hands moved with practiced, gentle efficiency, checking the wound in her shoulder. The bullet had passed through the fleshy meat of her deltoid; it had missed the artery. She would live.
"I have you, Elena," Dante whispered, his voice softer than the rain. "The debt is settled. The house is clean."
He turned his head.
Sophie was still standing in the center of the room.
Her white ankle socks were damp, her royal-blue velvet dress spattered with droplets of rain, her gold star-shaped pillow held securely against her ribs. She looked at the body on the floor, then looked at the dog, and finally looked up into Dante’s gray eyes.
She did not cry. She did not tremble.
She took two small, unhurried steps across the braided rug, stopping directly beside Dante’s kneeling frame.
She reached out her small, soft hand, her chubby fingers resting gently against the cold, wet ink of the archangel on his bare chest.
"You're cold, Mr. Dante," Sophie whispered sweetly.
A ragged, shuddering breath tore from Dante Moretti’s broad chest—the sound of an ancient, iron cage shattering into a million pieces.
He reached out his large, scarred arms.
He did not pick her up as a Don claiming an asset; he gathered her into his chest with the desperate, trembling reverence of a brother who had finally brought his family home. He buried his face in her chestnut curls, feeling her small arms wrap around his neck, the gold star pillow resting against his shoulder blade like a medal of honor.
Bruno stepped up beside them, resting his massive, scarred black head across Dante’s knee, his tail giving three slow, steady thumps against the floor.
Outside, the storm began to break, the violent squall rolling eastward across the dark expanse of Lake Michigan, leaving the first faint, silver light of dawn to creep through the shattered window.
May you like
Dante held the child tight against his heart, looked out through the trees into the returning light, and for the first time in his life, the King of the Moretti family made a promise that had nothing to do with blood:
"Nobody touches you, little bird," Dante whispered into the dawn. "Ever again."
