Chapter 161 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 161 (Elena's POV)
The news came in like bullets, one after another.


2:17 p.m., a text from Luca:


"Line B severed. Ferrante's transit warehouse in Detroit has been cleared. Sixty detained, cargo seized."


Before I could reply, the phone buzzed again.


Adrian.


"FBI just moved in Philadelphia." His voice carried a restrained excitement. "Three sites raided simultaneously. Seven mid-level members arrested, including Ferrante's Philadelphia financial director and two operations managers."


I stood up from my chair.


"And—" he paused, as if confirming the information's accuracy, "two city council members were taken on the spot. They found cash, ledgers, and complete communication records with the Ferrante family."


My fingers gripping the phone were shaking.


From fingertips all the way to wrist.


"Elena?"


"I'm here," I said, voice hoarser than expected. "Go on."


"The FBI search warrants cover twelve Ferrante properties in Philadelphia. Nine have been executed so far. The remaining three—including two under Dante's name—are being coordinated with local police."


Dante.


My nails dug into my palm.


"Where is he?"


"Not in Philadelphia," Adrian said. "When the FBI arrived, his apartment was already cleared out. Personal belongings, documents, electronics—all gone. Looks like he evacuated early."


Evacuated early.


Marco's false intelligence had kept Enzo still, but Dante clearly had his own information channels.


Word of the FBI operation had leaked—maybe from inside the prosecution, maybe from nails Ferrante still had embedded in law enforcement.


"Got it," I said. "Thank you, Adrian."


"Elena—"


"Mm?"


He paused for a second.


"Have you eaten?"


I glanced at the bowl of instant noodles on my desk, long since gone cold, noodles bloated, broth turned a murky yellow.


"Yes."


"Liar."


"…Half a bowl of noodles."


He sighed but didn't push.


"Goodnight."


"Goodnight."


I hung up and immediately called Uncle Simone.


"FBI moved in Philadelphia. Dante ran."


The click of a lighter came through—the cigarettes he'd quit three years ago, apparently back.


"I know," he said, exhaling smoke. "Dario told me fifteen minutes ago. Ferrante is pulling back—full evacuation from Philadelphia, personnel retreating to Palermo."


"Dante too?"


"Most likely. Philadelphia isn't safe for him anymore. His name is on the FBI warrants. If he stays in the US, getting caught is just a matter of time."


My fingers tapped the desk twice.


"If he makes it back to Palermo, that's trouble."


"Big trouble." Simone's voice dropped. "You've seen the security level at Ferrante's stronghold. Once he's inside those walls, our people can't get anywhere near. Then it's judicial extradition—that's a process measured in years."


Years.


I couldn't wait years.


"Right now Ferrante's busy dealing with the FBI. Internal chaos," Simone continued. "Dante's guard has dropped from four to two—the rest were pulled to handle the Philadelphia mess."


My heartbeat quickened.


Two people.


"This is the only window," Simone said. The sound of a cigarette being crushed in an ashtray came through. "But it won't stay open long. Forty-eight hours at most—once Ferrante sorts out the Philadelphia fallout, they'll stuff Dante inside the Palermo fortress."


Forty-eight hours.


"I'm going," I said.


"Elena—"


"Uncle Simone. I'm going."


Silence on the other end.


"…Give me the operation plan within twenty-four hours," he finally said.


"Twelve."


Another pause.


"You're exactly like your goddamn father," he muttered, and hung up.




Nine p.m. I went to see my great-uncle at the hospital.


He'd been moved out of the ICU—post-surgery recovery was going well, transferred to a regular ward.


When I pushed the door open, he was propped up against the raised bed, holding a cup of espresso.


"Did the doctor say you could drink that?" I frowned.


"The doctor said plain water." He took a sip, expression satisfied. "But too much plain water makes a person stupid."


I sat at the bedside and looked at him.


His color was genuinely much better. Some warmth in his face, eye sockets not as hollow, voice carrying real strength.


The tape from the IV needle still clung to the back of his hand, but his grip on the coffee cup was steady.


"Great-uncle."


"Mm."


"FBI moved in Philadelphia. Ferrante's political network is basically paralyzed."


He nodded. Unsurprised.


"Dante ran," I continued. "Heading back toward Palermo. But right now he only has two people with him."


He set down the coffee cup.


The bottom clinked softly against the nightstand.


"Window is forty-eight hours at most," I said.


He looked at me.


In those clouded eyes, something was slowly coming into focus—like an old camera, lens turning several rotations before finally locking on.


"You're going yourself."


"Yes."


He was quiet for a while.


Only the beep of the heart monitor and the occasional sound of a nurse's cart rolling past in the hallway.


"Go then," he said. "End this."


I nodded.


"But this time—" He raised a hand and pointed at my temple. "Don't come back hurt."


I laughed.


"I promise."


"You said that last time too." He snorted. "Then came back with eleven stitches in your head."


"This time I really promise."


"Don't promise with your mouth." He poked my forehead with his finger. "Use your brain."


I took his outstretched hand and held it against my cheek.


His palm was rough, full of calluses, but warm.


"The way you look right now," he said suddenly, voice going very soft.


"What way?"


He looked into my eyes.


For a long time.


Long enough for the streetlights outside to shift from orange to white—that cold, stark white that only comes in deep night.


"Like your father," he said. "Every time before he set out, he had this same expression."


My throat seized.


"Bright eyes," he continued, voice even softer now, almost talking to himself. "Chin up. Mouth not smiling, but the whole person smiling."


"You know that feeling?" He looked at me. "Every muscle in your body is taut, but not from nerves. It's because—the moment has finally come."


I didn't speak.


Because he was too right.


The moment had finally come.


He patted the back of my hand.


"Go," he said. "Come back soon."


I kissed his forehead and stood.


At the door I looked back—he'd picked up the espresso again, sipping, expression serene.


Like an old soldier who'd completed his mission and could finally sit down for a drink.




Back at the apartment, I sat on the living room floor, back against the sofa.


Phone screen lit up.


A message from Dario—Dante's exact location confirmed.


He'd gone back to Sicily, just as expected.


A private villa on the outskirts of Catania. One of the Ferrante family's safe houses—remote, surrounded by olive groves and vineyards.


Two guards.


One car.


Nearest highway three kilometers away.


I stared at that red dot on the map.


Then I opened my duffel bag and started packing.


Change of clothes. Cash. Fake IDs.


The Swiss Army knife from Pavel.


Finally, I took the Glock 43 from the hidden compartment in my nightstand.


Ejected the magazine. Checked. Full. Slid it back in, racked the slide—the chambering sound was crisp in the quiet apartment.


Gun, or knife?


A gun was clean. One shot, done. Neat. No unnecessary suffering.


But too easy for him.


A knife was slow. Painful. Could make him understand in those final minutes exactly why he was dying.


I put both in the bag.


I'd decide when I got there.