Chapter 2 - The Basement on Marginal Street
The address led them to a dilapidated brick apartment building tucked away on Marginal Street, just blocks from the churning gray waters of the Boston Harbor. The wind howled through the narrow alleyway, rattling loose fire escapes and sending trash skittering across the pavement.
Dante stepped out of the black SUV, his three armed guards forming an immediate protective perimeter around him. But Dante didn't care about tactical formations. His boots clicked hard against the concrete as he followed the triplets down a narrow, damp concrete staircase that led to a basement apartment with a rusted iron door.
"Mom!" the boldest girl—who had introduced herself as Lily earlier—shouted, pushing the door open. "Mom, look! A man bought the painting! We have money! We can get medicine!"
The interior of the apartment was freezing. There was no central heat humming in the walls, only a small, dented space heater glowing faintly in the corner, throwing off more noise than warmth. The air smelled of damp plaster, cheap soup, and old paint.
"Lily... girls..." a weak, rasping voice floated from a small, dimly lit bedroom off the main kitchen area. "What did I tell you about talking to strangers..."
Dante froze.
That voice. Even weakened, even strained by sickness and exhaustion, it was a melody he would recognize in the middle of a war zone.
Without waiting for Nico or the guards, Dante pushed past the children and walked down the short hallway into the bedroom.
A single overhead bulb hung from a frayed cord, illuminating a narrow cot pushed against the peeling floral wallpaper. Lying beneath a pile of mismatched wool blankets was a woman. Her dark-blond hair was matted against the pillow, her cheeks hollow, her skin alarmingly pale. But when she coughed and turned her head toward the doorway, her eyelids fluttered open.
Green eyes.
The exact same shade of emerald green that haunted his dreams every single night for seven years.
"Elena," Dante breathed. The name slipped out of him like a prayer he never thought he’d utter again.
The woman on the bed blinked, her feverish gaze focusing on his face. Recognition flashed in her eyes, followed instantly by a wave of pure, unadulterated terror. She scrambled backward against the headboard, pulling the blankets up to her chin.
"No," she whispered, her voice cracking. "No, you shouldn't have found us. Please... just go away."
Dante crossed the small room in two strides, dropping to his knees beside the cot. His large, calloused hand hovered over her face, terrified that if he touched her, she would turn to smoke and vanish like a ghost.
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"You're alive," he choked out, the iron control he had maintained for a decade completely shattering. "They told me you were dead. I buried you, Elena. I stood at your grave."
"I know," she sobbed, tears spilling over her lashes as she gripped his wrist with surprising strength. Her fingers were burning hot with fever. "I'm sorry, Dante. I had to let you think I was dead. If your mother... if your family had known I survived that night, the girls and I wouldn't have lasted twenty-four hours."
