Dante leaned against the edge of the desk. Crossed his arms.
“Let me tell you what’s happening,” he said.
He spoke the way he moved. No wasted energy. Every sentence carrying exactly the weight it needed to carry and not an ounce more.
“Last night, around two in the morning, someone firebombed the Bridgeport community center on Lowe Avenue.” Dante’s voice was level. Not flat—flat implied absence. This was presence compressed to its smallest possible form, the way a diamond was carbon compressed. “Molotov through the front window. The building is gutted. Nobody was inside.”
Nobody was inside. The relief of those three words was so specific and so visceral that I felt it in my stomach—a clench releasing, a muscle I hadn’t known was tight letting go. Two in the morning. An empty building. A coincidence of timing that separated property damage from murder.
“The center ran after-school programs,” Dante continued. “Tutoring. A basketball league for kids under twelve. A summer lunch program that fed sixty children a day.”
My hands tightened on the glass Marco had given me. The water shivered.
Kids. Programs for kids. Someone had firebombed a building where children ate lunch and learned to read and shot baskets on a court that probably had cracks in it, because that was how community centers worked—underfunded, overfull, held together by people who gave a shit and duct tape. Someone hadthrown a bottle of fire through the window and walked away and the building had burned and sixty kids had lost the place that fed them.
The echo was so loud I almost couldn’t hear Dante over it.
Maria. A bystander.
All these years later, the same families. The same neighborhoods. Different weapons, same math.
“The same Bratva who tried to grab you.” Marco spoke from behind the desk, his phone down now, his attention fully in the room. His eyes were fixed on me. He paused. The pause was precise—placed, not accidental.
“But they’re not on their own. Of course, the Valentis are behind it. Enzo.”
The picture forming in Dante’s office was larger than anything I’d been told. Larger than Maria. Larger than me. This was a war conducted through proxies, fought with fire and money and the deliberate destruction of the things that connected a family to its community. Enzo wasn’t just hurting the Carusos. He was isolating them. Burning the bridges between the family and the neighborhood that had sheltered them for fifty years, turning allies into victims, turning protection into a liability.
Santo stood behind my chair. I could feel him the way I always could—the heat of his body, the tension in it. His anger was physical. Not visible, not audible, but present in the air the way electricity was present before lightning. The muscle in his jaw was working. His hands were at his sides and they were still and the stillness was costing him everything.
He wanted to hit something. I knew this about him now—the way his body processed threat and injustice and the particular fury of a man who cared about his neighborhood watching it burn. The violence was his first language and he was translating in real time, holding the words back, letting Dante’s languagetake precedence because this was Dante’s room and Dante’s strategy and Santo’s job right now was to listen, not to act.
But his body was vibrating. I could almost hear it.
Dante let the silence hold for three seconds after Marco finished. The room absorbed the information. The old walls and the wood paneling and the desk that had belonged to his father took it in and gave nothing back.
Then he looked at me.
“Which brings us,” he said, “to you.”
The attention of the room shifted. Not suddenly—gradually, like a tide turning. Dante’s eyes. Marco’s eyes. Dona’s beside me, her hand finding the arm of her chair. Santo behind me, his stillness deepening.
I felt it arrive. The moment I’d been running from since the night I’d climbed through a window in Oak Brook with a lockpick and a lie. The moment when the story I’d been carrying—Maria’s story, my story, the grief and the mission and the twenty-three years of silence—either came out or calcified into something I could never break free of.
My mouth was dry. The water glass was sweating in my hands.
Dante’s eyes held mine. Patient. Steady. The eyes of a man who had all the time in the world and would use every second of it.
“I need to know who sent you,” he said.
He was gentle about it. That was the worst part.
“You’re not in trouble, Cora.” Dante’s voice had shifted again—lower, quieter, the register of a man who understood that the person in front of him was not an enemy combatant but a woman sitting in a chair that was too big for her with water she hadn’t drunk and nails she’d bitten to the quick. “Nobody in this room is going to hurt you. I want you to hear that.”
I heard it. My body didn’t.
My body did the thing it had been doing since I was seven years old when the world applied pressure beyond the threshold. It stopped. Not a flinch, not a flinching away—a cessation. Every system going quiet at once. The breathing shallow. The hands still. The face smooth and empty, the expression wiped clean the way you wiped a counter, the surface reflecting nothing because nothing was safer than something and I had learned this lesson early and well and it had never failed me.
I couldn’t speak.
