Chapter 64 Bone and Ashes

Chapter 64 Bone and Ashes
The warehouse at 117 Fulton Market rose from the darkness like a tomb.

Dante killed the engine three blocks away and sat for a long moment, studying the building through the cracked windshield of the stolen sedan. No lights in the windows. No guards at the door. No sign of life at all.

Either Elena was alone in there, or he was walking into a trap.

He'd brought Francesco and five men—the best of his personal crew, the ones who answered to him, not his father. Francesco had served with Dante in places that didn't appear on maps, so Dante knew he could handle himself perfectly. The others were younger, hungrier, eager to prove themselves to the man they called the Devil.

"Spread out," Dante said quietly. "Francesco with me. The rest take positions around the perimeter. No one goes in or out without my say-so."

They moved like shadows, melting into the night. Dante and Francesco approached the main entrance, a rusted loading bay door, slightly ajar, just enough for a man to slip through.

"You feel that?" Francesco whispered.

Dante nodded. The hair on his arms was standing up. "They know we're coming."

"Or they're waiting for us."

"Same thing."

Dante slipped through the gap, Francesco behind him. The interior was vast and dark, filled with the ghosts of old machinery and the smell of decay. Their footsteps echoed on concrete as they moved toward the office at the back, a single room with a grimy window, light flickering from within.

Dante's heart hammered against his ribs. He could feel her. Elena. Close now. Breathing. Waiting.

He reached the door, pressed his ear to the cold metal. Nothing. Just silence and the beating of his own heart.

He turned the handle.

And there was Elena.

Dante let out a sigh of relief.

Tied to a chair in the center of the room, her wrists bound with plastic, a gag across her mouth. Her eyes, those fierce, knowing eyes, widened when she saw him. She made a sound behind the gag, something between a sob and a scream.

Dante crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees before her. His hands shook as he worked at the bindings, as he pulled the gag free, as he pulled her into his arms.

"I knew you'd come," she whispered against his shoulder. "I knew it."

"Of course I came." His voice cracked. "You're my sister. No matter our differences, I'd always have your back."

His words melted Elena's heart and she cried. A feeling of pride and shame swept through her.

Francesco stood guard at the door, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond. "We need to move. Now. This feels too easy."

He was right. It was too easy. No guards. No resistance. Just Elena, waiting to be found.

Dante helped her stand, her legs unsteady after days of captivity. "Can you walk?"

"I can run if I have to."

They moved toward the door, Elena between them, Francesco leading the way. Twenty feet to the loading bay. Fifteen. Ten.

The first shot came from nowhere.

Francesco spun, firing into the darkness, his body a shield between Elena and the shooter. Dante pushed her down, his gun up, his eyes searching for targets.

They emerged from the shadows like wolves, four men, then six, then more, their guns flashing in the dark. The SUV shooters from the coffee shop. They'd been waiting. They'd known Dante would come.

"Cover!" Francesco roared.

The gun battle erupted into full chaos.

Dante dragged Elena behind an old conveyor belt, bullets chewing the concrete around them. Francesco had found cover behind a steel support beam, his pistol barking with precision, each shot finding a target. The younger men outside had heard the gunfire, they were returning it now, pinning the shooters from the flanks.

But there were too many. And they were too well positioned.

"How many?" Dante shouted.

"At least eight!" Francesco fired, dropped one, reloaded. "Maybe more!"

Elena pressed herself against Dante, her body trembling. He could feel her heart pounding, could feel the fear she was too proud to voice. He wrapped an arm around her, fired blind with the other, keeping their heads down.

One of his men screamed, a young kid named Hugo, only twenty-two, eager to prove himself. He went down in a spray of blood, and Dante felt it like a physical blow.

"Fall back!" he shouted. "Get to the entrance!"

But the shooters had anticipated that. Two of them had circled around, cutting off the exit. Francesco engaged them with his rifle in one hand and a knife in the other, the knife work was brutal, efficient, the kind of killing that left men staring at their own insides before they died.

Another of Dante's men fell. Then another. They were being whittled down, the shooters using their numbers, their positioning, their knowledge of the space.

Dante fired until his clip was empty, reloaded, fired again. Elena had found a fallen man's gun, she was shooting now, her face a mask of concentration, her shots wild but distracting.

"We need to move!" Francesco appeared at Dante's side, his face spattered with blood not his own. "Now! I'll cover you!"

Dante nodded, pulled Elena up, and ran.

The next sixty seconds were a blur of sound and motion. Francesco moved like the soldier he'd been trained to be, his gun and knives working in concert, dropping shooters with every step. Dante fired behind them, protecting their retreat, Elena somehow keeping pace despite her weakened state.

They reached the loading bay, where his car was parked. The remaining shooters were regrouping, pursuing, their shouts echoing in the darkness.

"Outside!" Dante pushed Elena through the gap, then turned to cover Francesco's exit.

Francesco came through firing, his last clip empty, his knife red to the hilt. "How many left?"

Dante counted. Three of his men remained, including Francesco. Four shooters were still standing, scrambling through the warehouse after them.

"Get Elena to the car!" Dante shouted. "I'll hold them!"

"Like hell you will." Francesco grabbed his arm. "We go together or not at all."

They ran, all of them, Elena included, toward the vehicles parked in the shadows. Behind them, the shooters emerged from the warehouse, guns blazing.

Dante reached his sedan, threw Elena into the back, and dove behind the wheel. Francesco and the others piled into a second car. Tires screamed as they accelerated away.

And then, in the rearview mirror, Dante saw it, one of the shooters, the last one standing, running for the black SUV that had tried to kill him at the coffee shop. He jumped in, the engine roared to life, and he came after them.

"The SUV!" Francesco's voice crackled over the phone. "He's following!"

Dante's hands tightened on the wheel. "Then let him follow."

He floored the accelerator, and the chase began.

The streets of Chicago blurred past, warehouses giving way to factories, factories to residential blocks, residential blocks to the gleaming towers of the Loop. The SUV stayed with them, its driver skilled, determined, unwilling to let them escape.

Dante wove through traffic, running red lights, forcing cars to scatter. Francesco's vehicle followed close behind, then the SUV, then nothing but the roar of engines and the certainty that this would end in fire.

"He's gaining!" Elena shouted from the back.

Dante could see it, the SUV closing the distance, its driver using the chaos to find angles, to predict Dante's moves. This wasn't an amateur. This was someone trained, someone who had done this before.

Francesco's car swerved, trying to block the SUV, but the driver was too fast. He slipped around them, pulled alongside Dante, and Dante looked into the face of the man who had been hunting him.

Dark eyes. Hard features. No expression at all.

The passenger window rolled down. A gun emerged.

Dante slammed on the brakes. The SUV shot past, its shots going wide. Dante spun the wheel, executed a J-turn that would have killed a lesser driver, and suddenly he was behind the SUV, chasing instead of being chased.

Francesco understood immediately. His car pulled alongside the SUV on the other side, boxing it in. Two cars, one target, the streets narrowing as they plunged into the industrial district.

The SUV driver realized his danger. He accelerated, trying to break free, but Dante matched him. Francesco matched him. They were a single organism now, hunting as one.

The driver made a choice, a bad one. He swerved toward Francesco's car, trying to force him off the road. Francesco held steady, and the SUV's side scraped against his, sparks flying, metal screaming.

Then Dante saw his opening. A gap in the traffic ahead. A clear line of sight. He accelerated, pulled ahead of the SUV, and cut hard across its path.

The driver had a split second to react. He didn't take it.

The SUV slammed into Dante's sedan, spinning both vehicles into a massive skid. Dante fought the wheel, kept them from flipping, came to a rest against a concrete barrier. The SUV spun twice, three times, then slammed into a light pole and stopped.

For a moment, silence.

Then Dante was out of the car, gun raised, moving toward the wreckage. Francesco was beside him, his knife drawn, his eyes scanning for threats.

The SUV's driver door opened. The man stumbled out, blood streaming down his face, one arm hanging at a wrong angle. He looked at Dante, at Francesco, at the guns trained on him.

And he smiled.

"You think this ends here?" His voice was a rasp, broken by broken ribs. "You think you've won? He's been planning this since before you were born. The Don..." He coughed blood. "The Don always wins."

Dante stepped closer. "Which Don? Moretti? My father?"

The man laughed, a horrible, wet sound. "You'll find out. Soon enough." His hand moved toward his pocket. "But not from me."

Francesco saw it first. "Dante, get back..."

The man's hand emerged with a grenade, the pin already pulled.

Dante grabbed Francesco and ran, diving behind the sedan. The explosion ripped through the night, a ball of fire that consumed the SUV, the man, other shooters with him, and any evidence they might have found.

When Dante looked up, there was nothing left but flames and the distant wail of sirens.

They regrouped at a safe house on the North Side, a nondescript apartment Francesco kept for emergencies. Elena sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, a cup of untouched tea in her hands. The remaining men stood guard at the windows, watching for threats that might not come.

Dante knelt before his sister, his hands gentle on her face. "Are you hurt? Did they..."

"I'm fine." Her voice was steady, but her eyes told a different story. "They didn't touch me. Not like that. They just... kept me there. Waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

Elena met his eyes. "For him. For our father. For whatever comes next." She reached out, gripped his wrist. "Dante, they talked in front of me. They thought I was just cargo, not worth hiding things from. Our and Moretti have been planning this for years. The Speedway. The Mayor. All of it. They're going to take over the city, and everyone who stands in their way is going to die. Benito temporarily halted their plans."

Dante nodded slowly. "I know. I found the recordings. I know what they planned for me, for us."

"Then you know we can't trust anyone. Not our father's people. Not Bella's. Not..."

"Bella is different." His voice was firm. "She's with us. She's is the new head of the Moretti family."

Elena raised both eyebrows.

"What! You can't be serious. How did Bella manage that?" Dante shrugged, while smiling. A smile that depicted pride.

Elena studied his face, seeing something there she hadn't expected. "You love her."

"Yes."

"Does she love you?"

"Yes."

Elena was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded. "Then she's family. Which means we protect her."

Dante pulled her into a hug, holding her tight. "I thought I'd lost you."

"You almost did." Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. "But I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere."

Dawn broke over Chicago, painting the sky in shades of gray and gold. Day two had begun.

Dante stood at the window, watching the city wake, counting the cost. Three men dead. A warehouse full of bodies. A grenade that had erased their living witnesses.

But Elena was alive. Elena was home. And now they knew the truth: Lorenzo Moretti and Don Vitale were working together, and the five-day countdown was real.

Dante's phone buzzed. Bella's name on the screen.

"She's safe," he said without preamble. "Elena's safe."

A pause. Then Bella's voice, thick with relief. "Thank God. Dante, I need to tell you something. About my uncle. About what he's planning."

"I know. We know." He watched a plane trace a line across the sky. "The question is what we do about it."

"We fight." Her voice was steel. "Together. And we win."

Dante smiled, a cold, dangerous expression that would have frightened anyone who knew what it meant.

"Day two," he said. "Let's make it count."

He ended the call and turned to face his sister, his men, the war that was just beginning.

The devil was still hunting. And now, he had something worth fighting for.