Chapter 26 26

Chapter 26 26
Chapter 26:

"You’re staring, Dante. People will think you actually like me."

Elena’s voice was as smooth as the silk of her gown, but her heart was a panicked bird battering against a cage. They were back in the center of the ballroom, the eyes of the Commission fixed on them like vultures waiting for a carcass to stop twitching.

Dante leaned in, his hand splayed flat against the small of her back, guiding her through the intricate steps of the tango. "I don’t like you, Elena. I own you. There’s a distinct difference in the quality of the affection."

"Ownership is a dangerous game," she whispered, her eyes locked onto his cold, blue gaze. "Things that are owned can be stolen. Or they can break."

Dante’s grip tightened, a silent reminder of the bruises he had already left on her soul. "Not in this house. In this house, everything stays exactly where I put it."

The music reached a crescendo, and Dante dipped her low, his face inches from hers. For a second, Elena saw the monster behind the mask—the man who had orchestrated her mother's kidnapping while he was barely more than a boy. She wanted to spit in his face, to claw those eyes out, but she forced a thin, brittle smile for the flashbulbs.

"I need a drink," she said as he pulled her back up. "Something strong enough to dull the sound of your voice."

"Don't wander, Elena," Dante warned, his eyes narrowing. "The night is half-over, but my patience is shorter."

She didn't answer. She turned and walked toward the bar, but the moment she hit the edge of the crowd, she veered left. She didn't head for the alcohol. She headed for the grand staircase, her heavy train draped over her arm like a dead weight.

The library was at the end of the East Wing, a massive, two-story cathedral of leather-bound secrets and dust. Elena slipped through the double doors, clicking the lock behind her. The silence of the room was heavy, smelling of old paper and the ghost of the man who had built this empire.

Third shelf from the window.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, frantic and raw. Elena scrambled toward the towering oak shelves, her fingers trembling as she counted. One. Two. Three.

She began pulling books down, the heavy volumes thudding onto the Persian rug. History of the Mediterranean. Roman Law. The Divine Comedy. Behind a thick, vellum-wrapped copy of The Prince, her fingers brushed something cold and metallic.

It was a small, black iron box, no bigger than a cigar case. It didn't have a lock; it had a fingerprint scanner—an old model, outdated but still humming with a faint, red light.

"Please," Elena whispered, pressing her thumb against the glass.

Click.

The lid popped open. Inside wasn't gold or jewels. It was a stack of micro-cassettes, a weathered leather journal, and a single, silver USB drive etched with the Moretti crest.

Elena grabbed the journal, flipping to the last page. The handwriting was jagged, written in a hurry.

> Michael thinks he is the player, but he is the pawn. Dante didn't pay the Volkovs to take me; he gave them the codes to the Palermo port in exchange for my disappearance. He needed the Moretti seat empty so he could fill it with his own shadow. Elena, if you are reading this, the 'Black Box' is a decoy. This—this is the kill switch.

"Looking for bedtime stories, cara?"

The voice came from the balcony above. Elena froze, her hand hovering over the USB drive. She didn't need to look up to know who it was. The scent of peppermint and expensive tobacco preceded him.

Dante was leaning over the railing, a glass of dark liquid in his hand. He looked bored, but the way he held his body was that of a predator about to pounce.

"I thought you were dancing," Elena said, her voice remarkably steady as she slid the iron box behind her back, hiding it in the folds of her skirt.

"The music stopped being interesting when the bride disappeared," Dante said, walking down the spiral staircase with agonizing slowness. "And Marco is surprisingly bad at keeping secrets when I start mentioning the health of his daughter."

He reached the bottom floor, his boots clicking against the hardwood. He stopped six feet away, his eyes scanning the mess of books on the floor.

"My mother’s box," he noted, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum. "I’ve been looking for that for five years. I assumed she’d destroyed it before the Russians took her."

"She didn't destroy it," Elena said, her chin lifting in defiance. "She kept it for me. To remind me that the man I married is a traitor who sold his own allies to buy a throne."

Dante laughed—a short, sharp sound that felt like a slap. "Traitor? No, Elena. I’m a businessman. Your father was running the Moretti name into the ground. I just ensured the transition of power was... efficient."

"By kidnapping my mother? By keeping her drugged in a wing you think I wouldn't find?"

Dante’s expression shifted. The boredom vanished, replaced by a cold, clinical curiosity. "So, you found the North Wing. I underestimated Marco’s loyalty to a dead woman. A mistake I’ll rectify tonight."

He stepped forward, extending his hand. "Give it to me, Elena. The box. It doesn't belong to you."

"It’s the only thing that belongs to me!" she screamed, her voice cracking the silence of the library. "It’s the proof that you’re a fraud. If I take this to the Commission—if I show them the Palermo codes—you won't be a King. You’ll be a target."

Dante didn't flinch. He just kept walking, his shadow stretching across the floor until it swallowed her.

"The Commission only cares about results, Elena. And the results are that the Romano-Moretti union is the strongest force in Sicily. Do you really think they’ll care about a ten-year-old ghost story?"

He lunged.

Elena dodged, her heavy dress snagging on the corner of the desk. She swung the iron box like a weapon, the edge of it catching Dante across the cheek. He grunted, a thin line of red appearing on his skin.

"You're learning," he hissed, touching the blood on his face. "But not fast enough."

He grabbed her by the throat, slamming her back against the bookshelves. The impact sent a dozen more volumes crashing down around them. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his other hand reaching for the box she was still clutching.

"You think Salvatore is coming to save you?" Dante whispered, his face inches from hers. "Salvatore is a broken toy, Elena. I let him into the chapel because I wanted him to see you say 'I do.' I wanted him to know that even his love couldn't stop me from taking what was mine."

"He's... he's coming," Elena gasped, struggling against his grip. "He's not a shadow. He's the man you're afraid of."

Dante’s eyes flared with a sudden, uncontrollable rage. He ripped the box from her hand and threw it across the room. It hit the marble fireplace with a deafening clang.

"I am afraid of nothing!" he roared.

BOOM.

The sound didn't come from the library. It came from the courtyard—the same courtyard where Vanni had died the night before. The windows of the library rattled in their frames, and a dull, orange glow began to bloom against the night sky.

Dante froze, his grip on Elena’s throat loosening.

"What was that?" he demanded, looking toward the window.

Elena gasped for air, a jagged, triumphant smile spreading across her bruised lips. "That, Dante... is the light Salvatore promised me."

The library doors burst open. Marco stood there, his face covered in soot and blood. "Dante! The East Gate is gone! It’s the Volkovs—and they’re not alone. Luciano is with them. And Salvatore."

Dante turned back to Elena, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. He pulled his Beretta from his holster, the click of the safety off sounding like a death knell.

"If I can't have the masterpiece," he whispered, leveling the gun at her heart, "then no one will."

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