She told me she loves me tonight. She hadn’t stuttered, but said it out loud, like it was a truth she’d already accepted and needed to share with me.
I still don’t know what I did to deserve that. To deserve her. I know the things I’ve done, the man I’ve been, the violence that clings to me no matter how hard I try to outrun it. Love feels like something meant for better men.
But I’m going to try.
For however long I have left—hours, days, a lifetime—I’m going to spend it trying to be worthy of the woman sleeping in that bed.
Even if it costs me everything.
The hallway is dark and quiet as I make my way downstairs. Most of my men are catching whatever crumb of sleep they can before we move out, but the house isn’t entirely still. I can hear murmured conversations from the security room, the occasional crackle of a radio, and the sounds of people preparing for war.
I head to the armory first because that’s what I always do before a mission. Old habits cultivated over twenty years of violence.
The room smells like gun oil and metal. I turn on the lights and stand there for a moment, taking in the rows of weapons mounted on the walls. Rifles, shotguns, pistols, knives. Enough firepower to start a small war, which is exactly what we’re about to do.
I built this armory about three years ago, and back then, I never imagined I’d use it to save my son. How ironic.
I start with my own weapons, the ones I’ll carry into the cathedral. My primary Beretta, cleaned and loaded. Backup piece for my ankle. Combat knife that’s been with me since I was nineteen and stupid enough to think I was immortal.
I check each one carefully, breaking them down and reassembling them, making sure every component is perfect. The ritual is soothing in its familiarity, giving my hands something to do while my mind runs through the assault plan for the hundredth time.
Four entry points. Sixty men divided into teams. Marco leading the extraction unit through the basement tunnel while I draw Viktor’s attention at the sacristy. Backup teams ready to breach if the primary assault stalls.
It’s a solid plan. As solid as any plan can be when you’re facing a traitor who knows all your tactics.
The thing that keeps eating at me is that Viktor helped design most of our assault protocols. He knows how I think, how I move, how I react under pressure. Every advantage I thought I had is compromised because I trusted the wrong person for fifteen years.
But I try not to let it bother me as I finish with my weapons and move on to the tactical gear. Body armor that can stop mosthandgun rounds. Comms equipment tested and retested. Spare magazines loaded and positioned for quick access.
Everything is in order. So why do I feel like I’m forgetting something?
I’m still standing there, staring at the weapons wall, when I hear footsteps in the corridor. Soft, shuffling steps that I recognize immediately.
Rosa appears in the doorway, wrapped in a heavy shawl despite the warmth of the house. The bruises on her face have darkened overnight, showing signs of healing. But she looks exhausted and fragile, nothing like the formidable woman who helped raise me.
“You should be resting,” I tell her.
“So should you.” She studies me with those sharp eyes that have always seen me. “But here we both are.”
“I have work to do.”
“Si.So do I.” She beckons with one wrinkled hand. She seemed to have aged quickly these past few days. “Come. You can finish playing with your guns later.”
I want to argue and tell her I don’t have time for whatever she has in mind. But something in her expression stops me, a stern look that gives no room for argument, and so I find myself following her down the corridor toward the back of the house.
The chapel is small and hidden in a corner that most people forget exists. Rosa has been using it since I was a child, lighting candles and saying prayers that I never understood and never tried to. Religion was for people who needed comfort, and Ilearned early that comfort was a luxury men like me couldn’t afford.
The room glows with candlelight when we enter. Dozens of flames flickering on the altar and the small tables along the walls, filling the space with warmth and the smell of melting incense wax. The statue of Mary carrying an infant watches from her alcove, making the environment sacred.
Rosa crosses to the altar and kneels on the worn cushion there. I stay in the doorway, uncomfortable in this sacred space that I’ve never felt I belonged in.
“Come,” she says without turning around. “Kneel.”
“Rosa, I don’t?—”
“I have been praying for your soul since you were a boy, Dante Moretti.” Her voice is firm despite its age. “I watched you become something hard and cold because that’s what your father demanded. I watched you kill your first man at sixteen and never shed a tear. I watched you close yourself off from everything soft and good because you thought it made you weak.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
