Chapter 2 - The Scent of Damp Earth and Regret
The address the girls gave him was a nightmare.
It was located deep in Roxbury, in a condemned apartment block that smelled of stale urine, rotting wood, and despair.
Dante’s black SUVs pulled up to the curb, tires screeching against the wet pavement.
The neighborhood was dead silent. People who lived in this kind of darkness knew better than to stare when mafia enforcers stepped out of armored vehicles.
Nico, his right-hand man, walked closely behind Dante. “Boss, this could be a trap. The dinner with Lorenzo—”
“Cancel Lorenzo,” Dante snapped, not looking back. “Tell him I’ll kill him tomorrow if he complains.”
Dante held the tiny, cold hand of the boldest triplet. She said her name was Mia. The quiet one, Lily, was being carried gently in Nico’s massive, tattooed arms. The third, Bella, held onto Dante’s heavy cashmere overcoat.
They climbed three flights of stairs.
The steps creaked ominously. The hallway lights flickered, casting long, skeletal shadows against the peeling wallpaper.
“It’s here,” Mia whispered, pointing to a battered wooden door with the number 402 hanging by a single rusted screw.
Dante didn’t knock. He didn’t want to give whoever was inside a chance to run.
He kicked the door right near the lock.
It shattered inward with a loud crash.
Dante stepped in, his hand instinctively resting on the cold metal of the Beretta holstered at his waist.
The apartment was freezing. There was no heat. A single mattress lay on the floor, covered in thin, threadbare blankets.
From beneath those blankets came a violent, rattling cough.
“Mommy!” Bella cried out, rushing past Dante’s legs.
A woman weakly propped herself up on one elbow. The dim light from the streetlamp outside caught her face.
She was thin. Horrifyingly thin. Her cheekbones protruded, and her lips were cracked and pale.
But beneath the exhaustion, beneath the grime and the sickness, it was her.
It was the face he had dreamed about every night for two thousand, five hundred, and fifty-five days.
Elena.
She looked up, her tired eyes squinting against the sudden intrusion.
When she saw Dante standing in the doorway, framed by the shadows of his men, the last bit of color drained from her face.
“No,” she whimpered, scrambling backward against the cold plaster wall. “No, Dante, please. Not them. Take me, but don’t hurt them.”
The plea sliced through his soul like a razor blade.
She thought he was here to hurt them.
Dante fell to his knees beside the mattress, ignoring the filth on the floor.
“Elena,” he choked out, reaching for her trembling hand. “Mia luce. (My light).”
She yanked her hand away as if he were made of fire. “You’re dead,” she sobbed, clutching her chest. “I saw your men... I saw the bomb...”
“I’m right here,” Dante said, his voice breaking. He took off his coat and wrapped it tightly around her shivering shoulders. “I’m alive. And you’re alive. God, you’re alive.”
He turned to Nico, the ruthless enforcer who was currently wiping a stray tear from his own cheek while holding a six-year-old.
“Call the private hospital,” Dante roared, his mafia-boss persona returning in a flash of protective fury. “Get Dr. Evans waiting. We are moving right now.”
Elena tried to fight him, but she was too weak.
As Dante scooped her frail body into his arms, she looked at the three girls trailing behind him.
May you like
“Dante,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut. “They’re yours.”
“I know, baby,” he whispered into her matted hair. “I know.”
