Chapter 35
A faint rustle of dry vine leaves broke the stillness of the orchard. Dante raised his silenced pistol, his thumb smoothly disengaging the safety catch. His boots made no sound against the damp earth as he flanked the row of grapevines. The sharp scent of copper hung in the cool night air—fresh human blood. Through the pale moonlight filtering between the branches, he spotted a shadowy figure leaning heavily against a wooden post, clutching their wounded left shoulder.
"Step out into the clearing. Hands where I can see them," Dante commanded, his voice a freezing whisper that brooked no disobedience.
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The figure stiffened, then turned around with agonizing slowness. The moonlight illuminated a gaunt, beautiful face framed by tangled black hair. Her breathing was shallow, her dark coat drenched in blood. It was Elena. Two years had passed since she staged her fatal crash in Brooklyn, yet seeing her flesh and blood struck Dante like a physical hammer. The former mob boss stood paralyzed before the living ghost of his past.
"Dante..." Elena choked out, collapsing onto the damp soil as her strength gave out. Her dark eyes filled with tears as she looked up at him, shivering from agony and fever. "I swore I would never bring this nightmare to your door. But Volkov’s hunters cornered me in Florence yesterday." She reached out a bloodstained hand, her voice trembling. "Is Sophia safe? Please tell me our little girl is safe."
