Chapter 45 The Weight Of Steel
The gun was cold against my skin.
I had tucked it into the waistband of my jeans, the metal pressing into my hip bone. It was a constant, heavy reminder of the lie I was living.
Dante thought he had given a frightened girl a way to defend herself. He thought he had taught me how to stand, how to breathe, how to squeeze a trigger. He didn't know that my father had taught me those things when I was fifteen, in a dusty field behind a warehouse in New Jersey.
I paced the floor of my bedroom. The storm had finally broken outside, rain lashing against the stone walls of the fortress like gravel.
04-21-88-12.
The numbers floated in my mind, tangled up with the image of Dante’s face when he held me on the roof.
He trusted me. That was the worst part. If he had treated me like a prisoner, this would be easy. I could hate him. I could steal the empire and burn his legacy to the ground, just like I planned.
But he didn't treat me like a prisoner. He treated me like a partner.
I couldn't sleep. The room felt too small, the air too thick.
I pulled on a thick sweater over my t-shirt, checking to make sure the gun was hidden but accessible. Then I unlocked my door and stepped into the hallway.
The fortress was quiet, but it wasn't asleep. I could hear the low hum of the generator and the distant murmur of voices from the guard room.
I walked toward the library. I knew he would be there.
The door was ajar. Inside, the fire had burned down to glowing embers. Dante was sitting in a leather armchair, facing the hearth. He held a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, but he wasn't drinking. He was just staring into the dying light.
He looked exhausted. His guard was down, his shoulders slumped under the weight of an invisible burden.
"You should be sleeping," he said without turning around.
"I could say the same to you," I replied, stepping into the room.
Dante sighed and took a sip of his drink. "The Lion doesn't sleep when the gate is barred."
"The gate is fine, Dante. The Russos are gone."
"The Russos are gone," he agreed, turning to look at me. "But the storm is still here."
He gestured to the empty chair opposite him. "Sit. Since you are awake, you can keep me company."
I sat down. The leather was cold.
"How is the arm?" I asked, looking at the sling.
"It throbs," he admitted. "But pain is good. It reminds you that you are still alive."
He looked at me, his gaze dropping to my waist where the gun was hidden under my sweater.
"You kept it?"
"You told me to."
"Good." He swirled the whiskey in his glass. "Most people... they are afraid of weapons. They think the gun is the violence. But the gun is just a tool. The violence is in the hand that holds it."
I went stiff. "And what is in my hand, Dante?"
He looked me in the eye. The firelight cast deep shadows on his face, making him look ancient and weary.
"Survival," he said softly. "I saw it on the roof today. You were shaking, yes. But you hit the target. You have the instinct."
I almost laughed. Instinct? No, it was practice. Thousands of rounds fired at paper targets until my hands bled.
"I didn't want to hit it," I lied. "I just wanted the lesson to be over."
"Because I was too close?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and charged.
"Yes," I whispered. "You were too close."
Dante set his glass down on the floor. He leaned forward, resting his good elbow on his knee.
"I am trying to keep my distance, Lilith. I know you hate this life. I know you hate... me."
"I don't hate you," I said. The words slipped out before I could stop them.
He froze. "You should. I bought you. I kept you. I am the reason you are trapped on this rock."
"You are also the reason I'm not dead," I said. "My father would have sold me to someone far worse than you. I know that now."
Dante looked at his hands, the hands of a killer, the hands of a protector.
"There is no 'worse'," he said bitterly. "There is only us and them. The wolves and the sheep."
"And what are you?"
"I am the shepherd dog," he said. "I have sharp teeth, like the wolf. But I use them to protect the flock."
He looked up at me, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes took my breath away.
"But sometimes," he whispered, "the dog gets tired of biting."
I felt a crack in my chest. A crack in the wall I had built against him.
I stood up and walked over to him. I didn't think about it. I just moved.
I knelt beside his chair. He watched me, his eyes wide and wary.
"Dante," I said softly.
I reached out and touched his hand, the one resting on his knee. His skin was hot.
"You don't have to be the monster tonight," I whispered. "The doors are locked. The guards are outside. You can just be Dante."
He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with mine. His grip was strong, desperate.
"I don't know how to be just Dante," he admitted. "I haven't been him since I was a boy."
"Try," I said.
He leaned his head back against the chair, closing his eyes. I stayed there, kneeling on the rug, holding the hand of the man I was supposed to destroy.
The gun pressed into my hip. The secret code burned in my mind.
But in that moment, listening to the rain and the steady rhythm of his breathing, I didn't want to be the Keeper. I didn't want to be the avenger.
I just wanted to stay right here.