Chapter 29 The Eye Of The Storm
The room was quiet, but it wasn't peaceful. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of a bunker while a war raged outside.
Rain had started to fall, drumming a steady, rhythmic beat against the massive glass windows that overlooked the cliffs. Inside, the only light came from the dying embers in the fireplace, casting long, dancing shadows across the ceiling.
I lay on the velvet sofa, my knees pulled up to my chest under a heavy wool throw. I wasn't sleeping.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the smoke curling out of the nursery vent. I saw Jasmine’s limp hand hanging over Dante’s arm.
I rolled over and looked at him.
Dante was sitting in the high-backed leather armchair facing the door. He hadn't moved in an hour. His legs were crossed, his breathing was slow and even, and his eyes were half-closed, but I knew he wasn't asleep.
The gun resting on the small table next to his hand gleamed in the firelight.
He looked different in the semi-darkness. Stripped of his suit jacket, with his tie loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he didn't look like the untouchable Don
He looked like a father who was terrified he had almost failed.
"Stop staring, Lilith," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the quiet room. He didn't open his eyes.
"I can't sleep," I whispered.
"Try harder."
"I see her face every time I close my eyes."
Dante finally opened his eyes. They were dark pools in the shadows, unreadable and intense. He turned his head slowly to look at me.
"She is safe," he said. "Giovanni is with her in the Vault. It has independent air filtration and three feet of concrete. Nothing gets in."
"They got into the nursery," I countered, my voice trembling slightly. "They got into the vents. How do you know the Vault is safe?"
"Because my grandfather built the Vault during the war," Dante said. "It doesn't rely on computers. It relies on three feet of concrete and a ventilation system that pulls from the sea caves."
He picked up his glass of water and took a sip, watching me over the rim.
"You need to fix your thumb," he said suddenly.
I blinked, confused by the sudden change in subject. "What?"
"In the video," he said, setting the glass down. "The file on the spy’s computer. Training_Montage. I watched the first few seconds before the feed cut out."
My stomach twisted. I had forgotten about the video, the evidence of my betrayal.
The proof that I had been sneaking into the nursery to train, preparing to kill him. I braced myself for the anger.
I waited for him to ask me who I was planning to stab with the knife I still had tucked under my cushion.
"You tuck your thumb inside your fist when you punch," Dante said calmly. "If you hit someone like that, you’ll break your own hand before you break their jaw."
I stared at him. "That’s what you took away from the video? My form?"
"It was sloppy," he said. "But the intent was good. You have a decent balance."
He wasn't angry. He sounded... impressed. Or at least, clinical. He was critiquing me like a coach, not a captor.
I sat up slowly, letting the blanket fall to my waist. "I was learning how to fight you," I admitted, my voice hard. "I was training so that the next time you cornered me, I could hurt you."
"I know," Dante said. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, not the cruel smirk I was used to, but something tired and humorless. "But tonight, you didn't fight me. You ran to me."
The truth of his words hung in the air between us.
When the threat became real, when the smoke started to fill the room, I hadn't looked at Dante as the enemy.
I had looked at him as the only other person in the world who cared enough to save Jasmine.
"Because of her," I said softly. "Not because of you."
"It doesn't matter why," Dante said. He leaned his head back against the leather chair and closed his eyes again.
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend. For tonight, at least."
"Who are they, Dante?" I asked. "Who hates you enough to gas a sleeping child?"
"Everyone hates me," he replied without emotion.
"I am the head of the Caravelli family. I have enemies in Naples, in Russia, in the government. But this..." He paused, his jaw tightening.
"This feels personal. They aren't trying to assassinate me. They are trying to dismantle me. They are taking my house, my security, my daughter. They want me to feel helpless."
"Is it working?"
He opened his eyes and looked at the heavy iron deadbolt on the door. "No. It is just making me angry."
It was the first time he had ever admitted vulnerability to me, even if it was wrapped in rage. It made the room feel smaller, more intimate.
We weren't the Don and the hostage anymore. We were just two people trapped in a box, waiting out a storm.
"Go to sleep, Lilith," he said, his voice softer now. "Tomorrow we hunt. But tonight, we just survive."
I lay back down. The conversation had drained the last of my adrenaline. The sound of the rain against the glass was hypnotic, and the warmth of the room was pulling me under.
I watched Dante for a few minutes longer. He seemed to settle deeper into the chair, his breathing slowing down as he entered a light doze.
I closed my eyes.
I drifted off into a restless sleep, filled with fragmented dreams about smoke and mirrors.
I didn't know how much time had passed when I woke up. The fire had burned down to ash. The room was pitch black.
I lay still, trying to figure out what had woken me.
Then I heard it.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I sat up, clutching the blanket.
Dante was already awake. He was standing silently by the chair, his gun raised, his body tense as a coiled spring. He was watching the door handle.
Slowly, the heavy brass handle began to turn.
I held my breath, gripping the knife under my cushion until my knuckles turned white.
The handle turned fully. The door pushed inward.
Thud.
It hit something solid and stopped.
The heavy iron deadbolt held fast.
The door rattled in the frame. Someone on the other side shoved against it, hard. The wood groaned, but the iron didn't budge.
Dante didn't shoot. He didn't shout. He just watched the door rattle against the bolt, his finger hovering over the trigger.
The rattling stopped.
The handle slowly turned back to its original position. The latch clicked back into place.
Someone was right outside the door. And they were trying to get in.