Chapter 162 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 162 (Elena's POV)
The air on the outskirts of Catania smelled like childhood.


The bitterness of olive leaves, dry earth, woodsmoke from someone's house in the distance—every scent had a corresponding image buried deep in my memory.


But I didn't have time for nostalgia.


4:12 a.m. Still dark. The moon was half-swallowed by clouds.


The villa sat at the end of an olive grove—two stories, ochre-red walls, wrought-iron gate half-open. A dark Fiat parked in the courtyard, a layer of dust on the hood.


Uncle Simone's voice came through the earpiece, very low.


"Two guards. One in the ground-floor living room, one in the second-floor corridor. Target in the east bedroom, second floor."


"Windows?"


"East bedroom window faces the olive grove. Shutters half-open. No iron bars."


"Surveillance?"


"Only one camera at the main gate. Already disabled."


Ferrante's security had indeed thinned out. The FBI raids had them scrambling—they couldn't even spare proper manpower to guard one crippled old man.


"Move," I said.


Two short confirmation tones came through the earpiece.


Fifteen seconds later, the ground-floor living room light went out. Soundlessly.


Twenty seconds after that, the second-floor corridor light went dark too.


Simone's voice: "Clear. Go up."


I stepped from the olive trees' shadow, crossed the courtyard, and pushed open the half-closed back door.


Kitchen. A pot sat unwashed on the stove, crusted with dried tomato sauce. Dishes piled in the sink. The faucet dripping—tap, tap, tap—a slow rhythm, like some kind of countdown.


My boots on the tile, sound compressed to the barest whisper.


Stairs. Wooden, old—every step could creak.


I pressed against the wall, feet landing on the very edge of each tread—the most stable support point, least likely to make noise.


Second-floor corridor.


A body lay at the far end—Simone's man's work. Clean. A red line across the neck, already still.


The east bedroom door was ajar.


A sliver of dim yellow light leaked through—bedside lamp.


I stood outside, right hand gripping the Glock, left hand flat on the door.


The instant my fingers touched wood, I felt my own heartbeat.


Fast. Strong. Every beat striking my ribs like someone drumming inside my chest.


But my hand wasn't shaking.


Deep breath.


Pushed the door open.




Dante lay in a hospital bed.


More accurately, a single bed jury-rigged into a hospital bed—a simple IV stand beside it, holding a bag of saline nearly empty.


Painkiller packaging cluttered the nightstand; several empty boxes had rolled to the floor.


His right knee was wrapped in thick plaster, from mid-thigh to shin.


The plaster's edges were dirty, seeping yellowish fluid, giving off a rotting smell—the wound was infected.


That was what I'd left him in Palermo.


He was curled under the blanket. At least twenty pounds thinner than the last time I'd seen him.


Cheekbones jutting, eye sockets sunken, salt-and-pepper hair matted and stuck to his sweaty forehead.


At least three days unshaven—gray stubble spreading from chin to neck.


A month ago in the church, he'd still worn a tailored suit, shoes polished, speaking as if critiquing fine wine.


Now he looked like an abandoned old man.


He heard the door and his eyelids lifted with effort.


Pupils took two seconds to focus.


Then he saw me.


His expression—


First, shock. His entire face froze for about a second and a half, like a computer crashing.


Then surprise. Eyebrows rising, mouth opening slightly, revealing a gum line missing two front teeth.


Finally—


He laughed.


Laughter rising from deep in his throat. Hoarse, stuttering, like a rusted bellows forced open.


Louder and louder. Harder and harder. Until his whole body shook, the cracking sounds from inside the plaster mixing with laughter until you couldn't tell if he was laughing or in pain.


"Ha—hahaha—"


He laughed until tears came, clouded drops running from the corners of his eyes into the wrinkles at his temples.


"I knew it." He gasped, laughter slowly subsiding into broken breaths. "I knew you'd come."


His gaze fell on the gun in my hand.


"Good that you came," he said, smile still clinging to his mouth. "Good that you came."


I stood at the foot of the bed.


The Glock's sight trained on his chest.


But I didn't pull the trigger.


"Why?"


The question escaped my mouth before I'd fully intended it.


Because it was pointless.


No answer would change anything—my father wouldn't come back to life, the Caruso family wouldn't be rebuilt, the dead wouldn't climb from their graves.


But I still wanted to know.


Like someone who knows the shrapnel in the wound can't be removed, but can't help wanting to see—what the bullet looked like.


Dante looked at me.


His smile slowly faded, replaced by something more complex—mockery, exhaustion, and something I hadn't expected.


Nostalgia.


"You ask me why," he repeated, voice like sandpaper on stone. "Your father asked the same thing. Before he died, he looked at me, and the last thing he said was—'why?'"


His gaze passed through me, landing somewhere I couldn't see.


"Do you know what it feels like to be someone's second, Elena?"


I didn't answer.


"Always standing half a step behind." He said. "'Matteo's brother.' 'Matteo's shadow.' 'The person Matteo trusts most.' Everyone who saw me, their first thought was always—'Oh, you're Matteo Caruso's man.'"


He coughed twice, a wet crackling from his chest.


"Twenty years." He raised one finger. "Twenty years I stood behind him. Cleaned up his messes, smoothed over his problems, did all the dirty work he wouldn't touch. His hands were always clean. Everyone loved him—righteous, kind, principled Matteo Caruso."


His mouth twisted into an ugly shape.


"And me? What did I do? Everything. But at every family gathering, when the elders raised their glasses—who did they toast? Always Matteo. Always."


He bit down hard on "always," every syllable carrying the sound of teeth grinding something to dust.


"And Isabella."


My finger tightened inside the trigger guard.


Isabella was my mother's name.


"You didn't know, did you?" His eyes suddenly brightened—frighteningly bright, cold and mad. "The first day she came to Sicily, I was the first person to see her. At the dock. She wore a red dress, hair blown wild by the sea wind, and she smiled at me—"


His voice went suddenly soft, soft to near-inaudible.


"Just that once."


Then his face contorted.


That softness was crushed in a fist, revealing the rotting flesh beneath.


"But she walked toward Matteo," he said, every word squeezed like venom between his teeth. "She only ever saw Matteo. I stood right beside him, and her eyes swept past me—like I was air. Like I was a piece of wood. Like I didn't exist at all!"


He lurched up from the pillow—the leg in plaster wrenched with a dull thud, his face going white with pain, but his mouth didn't stop.


"Your father had everything! Family! Ports! A wife! A daughter! He sat guarding all of it, thinking he owned the world! Naive! Pathetic!"


Spittle sprayed onto the sheets, pupils dilated until they nearly swallowed his irises.


"And me—I had nothing! Only a pair of hands soaked in shadow for twenty years! I'd had enough! Enough of being Matteo Caruso's shadow!"


His chest heaved violently. The IV tube was nearly yanked free, saline dripping one drop at a time onto the floor.


"When Ferrante found me," his voice suddenly dropped to nearly a whisper, "they said—'You deserve more.' Just that one sentence. Just that."


He looked at me.


"Do you know that in twenty years, no one had ever said that to me?"


He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling, a dazed smile floating to his lips.


"These years with Ferrante—I was finally myself. Someone called me 'Counselor.' Someone poured me wine. Someone—"


"Enough."


My voice cut a cold incision through the air.