Chapter 163 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 163 (Elena's POV)
Dante's mouth closed.


He looked at me, chest still heaving, forehead slicked with sweat.


"So that's it," I said.


Voice flat.


So flat it sounded foreign even to me—as if coming from someone else's mouth.


"Because of jealousy. Because of insecurity. Because my mother didn't look at you."


"You sold out my entire family. Killed my father. Destroyed my life."


"Over this."


Dante stared at me.


His lips moved, as if wanting to say more.


But I didn't want to hear anymore.


I holstered the gun at my waist.


Dante's eyes followed the weapon's movement—first confusion, then a small spark of hope.


He thought I wasn't going to kill him.


I drew the Swiss Army knife from my boot.


Flicked the blade open.


The metallic snap was crisp, startlingly loud in the quiet room.


That spark of hope in Dante shattered to dust in an instant.


"No—"


"A gun's too easy for you," I said, walking to the bedside. "You don't deserve a quick death."


He began to struggle—the broken leg twisted inside its cast, the good leg kicking frantically at the sheets, both hands clawing at the bed's edge to push himself back.


But he had nowhere to go.


A man in his sixties with a shattered knee couldn't even sit up without wheezing like a bellows.


I swung my leg over the bed, knee pressing into his chest, pinning him to the mattress.


His ribs protested with a creaking sound under my weight.


"You remember, don't you?" I lowered my head, looking at his face twisted with terror. "When I was little, you taught me. You held a rabbit and showed me how to cut along the midline of the belly—"


"Elena—please—"


"You said, 'Little princess, dissection takes patience. Small incisions, don't rush, go layer by layer—first the skin, then the fat, then the fascia—'"


"No—don't—"


"It's just been a long time." I pressed the knife tip against the skin below his collarbone, feeling his heartbeat transmit through the blade to my fingertips—pounding like war drums. "I'm out of practice. Bear with me."


The tip pierced in.


Dante's scream ripped through the room.


High-pitched, tearing, a howl squeezed from the depths of his soul—nothing like the composed voice that had ordered "kill her" in that Palermo church.


Blood surged from the incision. Dark red, warm, flowing along the curve of his ribs to either side.


Some soaked into the sheets. Some ran down his flank, dripping onto the mattress.


My hand was steady.


"First cut. For my father."


The blade traced three centimeters horizontally below the collarbone. Shallow, precise—just enough to open skin and the superficial fat layer.


His screaming dissolved into whimpers—mouth biting down on something, maybe his own lip, maybe his tongue.


"Second cut. For my mother."


The tip moved lower, drawing a vertical line on the left side of his sternum. Deeper this time, catching the intercostal muscle. His entire body arched up like a fish thrown ashore.


"Third cut—"


I paused.


Tears and mucus mixed together, smearing his entire face. Pupils unfocused, breathing reduced to short, rapid gasps, mouth producing garbled, indecipherable pleas.


"For my grandmother."


The final cut.


Vertical. From the lower sternum to above the navel.


The blade traced slowly along the midline he'd once taught me—skin, fat, fascia—layer by layer.


His screaming stopped at some point.


As if the vocal cords had been burned through by pain. Mouth still open, a hissing wheeze from his throat, but no longer enough strength to become sound.


Eyes wide open.


My face reflected in his pupils.


I didn't know what he saw in my face.


Maybe the little girl from twenty years ago who'd snuck his limoncello, whom he'd lifted onto his shoulders.


Maybe the woman now opening his body with the method he'd taught her.


Maybe nothing at all anymore.


His body convulsed several times.


Then went still.


I climbed off him.


Boots on the floor, soles sticky with blood, making a soft squelching sound.


The blade was all red. Dark blood ran along the spine of the knife to the handle, then dripped from the handle onto my wrist.


I wiped the knife on the sheets and put it away.


Glanced at the bed.


His eyes were still open.


No chance to close them now.


I turned and walked out of the bedroom.


Through the kitchen—the faucet still dripping. Tap, tap, tap.


The olive trees in the back rustled in the morning breeze. A strip of gray-white light appeared at the horizon—dawn was coming.


I crouched against the outer wall.


"Ugh—!"


Nothing much in my stomach—half a bowl of cold noodles and a cup of coffee—all surging up as acid, burning my esophagus and throat.


After vomiting I dry-heaved a few more times, until my abdominal muscles spasmed with pain, then slowly stopped.


Uncle Simone walked over.


Said nothing.


A bottle of water appeared before me.


I took it, rinsed my mouth, spat.


When I stood, my hands were still shaking.


From fingertips to wrists—fine, uncontrollable trembling.


But my eyes were dry.


Not a single tear.


"Let's go," I said.


Simone glanced at me and nodded.


I followed him toward the car parked on the other side of the olive grove.


Footsteps crunching on the gravel path.


After a few steps, I stopped suddenly.


"Uncle."


"Mm."


"So that's what it was."


He didn't turn around.


"Jealousy. Insecurity. Unrequited love." I stared at my blood-stained fingers. "My whole family—destroyed by something like that."


Wind swept through the olive grove, leaves rustling.


Dawn light seeped through gaps in the clouds, tinting the distant hillside pale gold.


"I always thought there would be a more…" I couldn't find the right word. "A bigger reason. Something more unavoidable."


Simone turned around.


His face in the dawn light looked aged and calm.


"Elena," he said, voice very low. "Most betrayals in this world don't have reasons that match their consequences."


He walked back and reached out, placing his hand on my shoulder.


The weight of his palm was heavy.


"Let's go," he repeated. "Time to go home."


I took a deep breath and followed his steps.


Before getting in the car, I looked back at the villa.


Ochre-red walls glowing warm in the dawn light. Wrought-iron gate still half-open. The dusty Fiat in the courtyard.


A very ordinary house.


Just as ordinary as the reason for the betrayal.




When the plane lifted off from Palermo airport, I leaned against the window and watched the Mediterranean below.


The sea was so blue it was nearly black. Fishing boats trailed white wakes, like knife marks scored into velvet.


In the distance, Sicily's coastline—ochre-red rooftops, faded church domes, and farther still, those gray-green mountains.


The Port of Catania was somewhere along that coast.


My father's port.


Next time I came back, I would take it back.


I pressed my forehead against the cold window glass and closed my eyes.


Between my fingers, traces of Dante's blood remained—three washes hadn't removed it all, seeped into nail beds and the lines of my fingerprints.


The faint smell of rust lingered at the tip of my nose.


But I no longer felt like vomiting.




When the plane landed at Chicago O'Hare, it was already dark.


The instant I turned on my phone, messages flooded in.


The topmost was from Luca.


"Be careful on your way back. Ferrante is in full collapse now. This is when it's most dangerous—they'll lash out at everyone indiscriminately."