Chapter 37 The Wound
The next morning, the fortress was quiet.
There was no sense of panic here, no frantic shouting or running guards. It was just a house, a very large, very old house perched on a rock.
The sun was shining, the ocean was glittering below, and the world seemed to have forgotten that two nights ago, we were almost killed.
I stood on the balcony of the suite, breathing in the salt air.
Jasmine was sitting on the rug inside, coloring with a set of pencils Donatello had found. She was calmer today.
The hysterical terror had faded into a clingy, quiet anxiety. She kept looking at the door, waiting.
"Is Papa coming?" she asked, not looking up from her drawing.
"He's working, Jas," I said, turning back into the room. "He has a lot of phone calls to make to fix the house in the city."
"Oh." She pressed down hard on the paper, snapping the tip of the blue pencil.
I sighed. "I'm going to get some water. Do you want to come?"
She shook her head. "I'll stay here."
"Okay. Don't open the door."
I walked out into the corridor. It was peaceful.
I could hear the faint murmur of voices from downstairs with staff going about their day, the smell of roasting coffee and lemon. It felt deceptively normal.
I walked down the main staircase, heading for the kitchen.
As I passed the library on the first floor, I heard Dante’s voice.
He was speaking Italian, his voice low and authoritative. I peered through the half-open door.
The library was magnificent, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea.
Dante was sitting behind a massive antique desk covered in files, laptops, and phones. He looked like the CEO of a company, dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers.
He was running the business. Probably shipments, territories, payoffs. The machine didn't stop just because his house had holes in the walls.
He hung up the phone and immediately picked up a pen to sign a document. As he moved, he winced, his hand going to his left arm.
I saw a spot of red blooming on the white sleeve of his shirt.
He cursed under his breath, grabbed a bottle of scotch from the tray on his desk, and poured a glass.
He downed it in one swallow, then started to unbutton his cuff with clumsy, frustrated movements.
I walked in.
"Alcohol thins the blood," I said. "It's going to make it bleed more."
Dante looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. He didn't look surprised to see me, just annoyed at the interruption.
"I am aware of the biology, Lilith."
"Then stop drinking and let me look at it."
I walked up to the desk. He didn't stop me. He looked tired and not the physical exhaustion of a soldier, but the mental exhaustion of a man keeping a dozen plates spinning while his personal life crashed around him.
He rolled up his sleeve.
The bandage from the fight in the city had slipped. The stitches he must have put in himself after the adrenaline faded were angry and pulling apart.
"You popped a stitch," I said, examining it. "Probably when you were carrying the luggage."
"It's fine," he said, reaching for a fresh bandage from a first-aid kit sitting on the desk. "I just need to wrap it tighter."
"You need to rest it. You're moving it too much."
"I have work to do," he said dismissively, gesturing to the pile of files. "The breach in the city has made the other families nervous. I need to show strength. I cannot take a sick day."
"You're not showing strength, Dante. You're showing stubbornness."
I took the bandage from his hand. "Sit still."
He sighed, a long, heavy exhale, and leaned back in his leather chair. He let me work.
I cleaned the area and applied a butterfly strip to close the gap, then wrapped it efficiently.
"Jasmine is asking for you," I said quietly, keeping my eyes on his arm.
He stiffened. "I will see her at dinner."
"She snapped a pencil because she's stressed. She doesn't need to see you at dinner. She needs to see you now."
"I am working," he said, his voice hardening.
"I am ensuring that the repairs in the city are done correctly so we can go home. I am ensuring that the business continues so we can afford the repairs."
"Bullshit," I said.
He looked at me sharp. "Excuse me?"
"You're hiding," I said, meeting his gaze.
"This isn't about business. You could take an hour break. You're hiding in here because you don't know what to say to her. You feel guilty that she got hurt, so you're burying yourself in paperwork."
Dante stared at me. The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of the ocean outside.
"You are very insolent for a guest," he said softly.
"I'm not a guest. I'm the woman keeping your daughter sane while you play boss."
He looked away, staring out the window at the blue horizon.
"I don't know how to comfort her," he admitted, his voice dropping. "I look at her, and I see her choking on that gas. I see my failure."
"She doesn't see your failure, Dante. She just sees her dad."
I finished the bandage and stepped back.
"She's safe here," I said. "Whatever this place is... it feels safe. You don't need to fight a war today. You just need to be a parent."
He looked back at me. His grey eyes were unreadable, but the harsh lines around his mouth had softened.
"You are good with her," he said. It sounded like an admission of defeat.
"She's a good kid."
"Why did you really tell me about the tunnels?" he asked suddenly. "You could have kept quiet. You could have let the gas happen and used the chaos to run."
"I told you," I said. "I'm not a monster."
"No," he murmured, standing up. He was close now. Too close. "You are definitely not a monster."
He reached out with his good hand, his fingers grazing my arm. It wasn't a restraining grip; it was a question.
"You confuse me, Lilith," he whispered. "I want to hate you for the lies. But I can't."
My breath hitched. "Dante..."
He leaned in. The smell of scotch and sandalwood filled my senses. The tension that had been building since the plane ride coiled tight in my stomach.
He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to my lips.
For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me. I thought the wall between us was finally going to crumble.
But then he blinked, and the moment broke. He pulled back, clearing his throat, a flash of conflict in his eyes.
He turned away from me and looked down at the desk. At the files. At the work that was his shield.
He reached for a pen.
I felt a pang of disappointment, sharp and immediate. He was going back to hiding.
Then, he stopped.
He tossed the pen onto the desk. He closed the laptop with a decisive snap.
"You are right," he said.
He picked up his jacket and draped it over his shoulders, careful of the injured arm.
"The business can wait an hour."
He walked to the door and held it open, looking at me.
"Let's go have lunch with my daughter."