That’s when Alaric appears behind Boris, his weapon pressed to the Russian’s head.
“Nobody’s transporting anyone,” he says, pulling the trigger.
Boris drops as Alaric spins toward Marco. One shot, center mass, dropping him beside his cousin.
Then Alaric sees Dante’s body.
His weapon falls from nerveless fingers as he stares at his son’s corpse. “Jesus Christ. He’s really dead.”
Around us, gunfire continues as the battle rages through the mansion, but Alaric doesn’t seem to hear it.
“My son,” he whispers, dropping to his knees beside Dante’s body. His hands shake as he reaches out to touch Dante’s pale cheek, all the hardness and authority stripped away. “My boy.”
Tears stream down his face. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him cry. This man, who controls empires, who commands respect through fear and violence, is completely shattered by the sight of his dead child.
“I was going to get you help,” he chokes out, his voice breaking. “Put you in a psychiatric facility somewhere you could get better. You were sick, Dante. So sick. But you were still my son.”
My own tears fall as I watch him grieve. Despite everything Dante did to me, seeing Alaric’s raw pain tears my heart apart. Whatever monster Dante became, he was still this man’s child.
I kneel beside Alaric on the bloodstained marble, placing my hand over his as he cradles Dante’s face.
“I failed him,” Alaric whispers. “I created this monster by teaching him the wrong lessons, by showing him that power mattered more than people.”
“You tried to save him at the end. That has to count for something.”
Around us, the sounds of gunfire are fading as the last Russian operatives are killed or retreat. Smoke drifts through the mansion’s broken windows, carrying the acrid smell of cordite and blood.
“He’s at peace now,” I say softly. “No more anger, no more pain. No more sickness eating at his mind.”
Alaric’s shoulders shake with silent sobs as he closes Dante’s lifeless eyes. “I should have seen it sooner. Should have gotten him help before it was too late.”
“You couldn’t have known how far he’d fallen.”
“Boss!” Benedetto’s voice cuts through our grief, blood streaking his face from a scalp wound. His clothes are torn, and he’s limping slightly. “Cars are ready in the back courtyard. We need to move now. The NYPD is three minutes out, and the feds won’t be far behind.”
Alaric doesn’t move, still staring at his son’s peaceful face. It’s like he can’t bear to leave Dante alone in this destroyed room.
“We have to go,” I say gently, tugging at his arm. “Alaric, please. We can’t help him now, but we can still save ourselves.”
“How do I leave him here? How do I abandon my child again?”
“You’re not abandoning him. You’re honoring his memory by protecting what he couldn’t destroy—our love, our family, our future.”
He allows me to help him stand, but his eyes never leave Dante’s body. I can see him memorizing every detail, storing this final image of his son in a place where grief and guilt will torture him for years to come.
“Boss,” Benedetto continues, his voice taking on urgency as sirens grow louder. “About Mrs. Moretti…we need to discuss her legal situation. Those shell companies, the Russian connections, the federal investigations that are coming—as long as she exists on paper, she’ll never be safe.”
“What are you suggesting?” I ask, though I think I already know.
“Complete erasure. New identity, new background, new everything. Kasimira Vale-Moretti has to die officially.”
The implication settles over us like a shroud as red and blue lights begin flashing through the broken windows. In the distance, helicopter rotors beat against the night sky.
“Can it be done?” Alaric asks, finally tearing his gaze away from Dante.
“It can be done. But it has to be done perfectly, and it has to be done fast. Once the authorities start investigating these shell companies, once they realize the scope of the money laundering operation, she becomes the most wanted woman in America.”
“How long do we have?”
