Chapter 65 Sleeping With The Enemy
The study was a sanctuary of masculine silence.
I lay on the leather sofa, my head resting on the armrest, watching Dante through the screen of my lashes.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting a dim, flickering orange glow across the room.
He was a machine. For an hour, he didn't move from his chair. He read reports, signed documents with aggressive slashes of ink, and made notes in a thick black ledger.
The only sounds were the scratching of his fountain pen, the turning of pages, and the occasional clink of ice against crystal.
I should have been planning my move. I should have been scanning the room for the safe. But instead, I found myself watching him.
I watched the way his brow furrowed when he read something he didn't like. I watched the way his hand flexed around the pen, the veins prominent under the skin.
I watched the way he unconsciously ran his fingers through his hair, messing up the perfect style until he looked wild and untamed.
He was a beautiful, terrifying thing. And I hated that I noticed.
I hated that even now, knowing I was about to betray him, a traitorous part of me wanted to walk over there and smooth the worry lines from his forehead.
Stop it, I scolded myself. He bought you. He owns you. He is the enemy.
I checked the grandfather clock in the corner.
4:15 AM.
Dawn was creeping closer. The window panes were turning a dark, bruised blue. I was running out of time.
If he didn't fall asleep soon, I would fail. And if I failed, the recording would be sent.
Please, I begged silently, my eyes boring into him. Just close your eyes.
As if hearing my silent plea, Dante stopped writing. He dropped the pen onto the desk with a heavy clatter.
He picked up his glass, drained the last of the amber liquid, and then leaned his head back against the high leather chair.
He closed his eyes.
He sat like that for a long time. His breathing deepened, slowing down into a heavy, rhythmic cadence. The tension that held his shoulders so high finally unspooled.
I waited five minutes. Then ten.
I sat up slowly. The leather of the sofa creaked beneath me.
I froze.
Dante didn't stir. He was out. The exhaustion of the war, the sleepless nights, and the whiskey had finally claimed him, dragging him down into a deep, chemical-heavy sleep.
I stood up. My legs felt like water.
I crept across the room. The Persian rug was thick and absorbed my footsteps. I moved toward the desk, keeping my eyes fixed on his face.
In sleep, the harsh mask of the Capo had slipped.
His lips were slightly parted, his lashes dark against his cheekbones. He looked younger. He looked like the man he might have been if he hadn't been born into blood.
I reached the desk. I was close enough to touch him. Close enough to smell the sandalwood and tobacco that clung to his skin. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I looked at the wall behind the desk.
The wall safe behind the painting.
There was a large oil painting of a stormy seascape hanging directly behind his chair. It was dark and violent, waves crashing against jagged rocks—a fitting image for Dante Caravelli.
I had to move it. But if I moved it, the scraping sound might wake him.
I glanced at Dante. He shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. His hand twitched on the armrest, inches from my hip.
I held my breath until my lungs burned. He settled again, his head lolling slightly to the side.
I stepped around the desk, moving into the small space between his chair and the wall. I was trapped between the stone and the man.
I reached for the edge of the painting. I pulled gently.
It swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.
There it was. A digital keypad set into the stone wall.
I stared at the numbers, the red light blinking in the semi-darkness.
04-21.
The text had said the combination started with 04-21. That meant there were more numbers. Usually, a pin code was six digits.
I typed in the first four. 0... 4... 2... 1.
The keys beeped softly, too loud in the quiet room. I winced with every press, glancing at Dante's sleeping form.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The light stayed red. It needed two more digits.
Figure it out.
I stared at the keypad. Panic began to rise in my throat, hot and sour. 04-21. April 21st. What was significant about April 21st?
It wasn't his birthday; I had seen his file, he was a winter baby. It wasn't the day I arrived.
I looked around the desk, desperate for a clue. My eyes landed on a framed photograph turned slightly away from the visitor's chair. It was the only personal item in the room.
I leaned over the desk, careful not to brush against Dante’s arm. I looked at the photo.
It was black and white. A young woman, laughing, her hair windblown. She was beautiful, with eyes that looked like Dante’s. She was holding a baby.
Jasmine.
And written in the corner of the photograph, in faded ink: Elena, Rome. 1998.
His wife. The one who died.
April 21st. The day she died? Or the day they were married?
If the first four digits were the date, the last two had to be the year.
I looked at Dante’s sleeping face. He wasn't guarding money in that safe. He was guarding memories. He was locking away the only thing he had ever loved.
A pang of guilt struck me, sharp and deep. I was violating his grief to save my own skin.
I turned back to the keypad.
If the date was April 21st...
I looked at the files stacked on the corner of the desk. The top one was labeled: Security Protocols - 2024.
Wait.
04-21.
Rome was founded on April 21st.
Dante was obsessed with history. He quoted Marcus Aurelius. He built his fortress like a Roman citadel. He called this place his Empire.
04-21... 753 BC. The year Rome was founded.
It was a long shot. A stupid, academic long shot. But for a man who wanted to be Emperor, it made sense. It was the only date that mattered as much as his family.
I reached out. My finger hovered over the 7 key.
Beep.
Beep.
I typed the last two digits of the year. 53.
Click.
The sound was mechanical and final. The light turned green. The heavy steel door popped open an inch.
I nearly sobbed with relief.
I pulled the door open. Inside, there were stacks of cash, a passport, a velvet box that likely held jewelry, and a single manila envelope labeled Gorgon.
I grabbed the envelope. My hands were shaking so hard I nearly dropped it. I opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper with a map and coordinates.
Meeting Location: Port 4, Container 77B.
Time: Friday, 12:00 PM.
I pulled the burner phone from my bra, where I had hidden it against my skin, and snapped a picture of the document without flash.
I shoved the paper back into the envelope and tossed it into the safe. I closed the heavy steel door. I swung the painting back into place.
I had it.
I turned to leave, adrenaline flooding my system.
And that’s when I felt it.
A hand clamped around my wrist.
I gasped, the sound strangled in my throat.
Dante.
He hadn't opened his eyes. He was still half-asleep, caught in the space between dreams and reality. But his reflexes were honed by a lifetime of violence. He had sensed movement near him, and his body had reacted.
His grip was iron.
"Elena?" he murmured.
The name was a whisper, rough with sleep and longing.
I froze. My heart stopped beating. He thought I was his dead wife.
I stood there, trapped by his hand, looking down at him. He shifted, pulling my hand closer to him, pressing my palm against his chest, right over his heart. I could feel the slow, steady beat of it through his shirt.
"Stay," he mumbled. "Don't go."
The vulnerability in his voice broke me. This was the monster everyone feared. This was the Wolf of Italy. And here he was, begging a ghost not to leave him.
For a second, I didn't want to pull away. I wanted to stay. I wanted to be the person who could comfort him.
But I wasn't Elena. I was Lilith. I was the spy who had just sold him out.
"I'm here," I whispered, the lie tasting like poison. "Go back to sleep, Dante."
I gently, slowly, pried his fingers loose from my wrist. He resisted for a second, then his hand
fell limp onto his lap. His breathing evened out again.
I backed away. I didn't breathe until I was out of the room.
I ran up the stairs, my legs burning, clutching the phone against my chest. I sank down onto the cold marble floor of the hallway, shaking so hard my teeth chattered.
I had the information. I had survived.
But as I sat there in the dark, I could still feel the phantom heat of his heartbeat against my palm.
I was a spy. And I had just sold the only man who had ever asked me to stay.