Chapter 7 - The Bloodline Acknowledged
Leo wiggled free from my embrace, his little yellow boots padding softly across the plush carpet toward the kneeling giant.
“Leo, wait—” Mia whispered, reaching out a protective hand.
I touched Mia’s arm, shaking my head gently. “Let him.”
Leo stopped six inches from Dante. He reached out a small, chubby hand, resting his palm flat against Dante’s bowed head, his little fingers gently patting the thick, dark hair dusted with plaster.
“Don't cry, tall man,” Leo said softly, his voice full of pure, unadulterated childlike comfort. “The bad men went away.”
Dante lifted his head slowly, his face streaked with tears, his breath catching in ragged hitches as he looked up into the face of his son.
With an agonizing, reverent hesitation, as if terrified that the boy was made of spun glass, Dante raised his large, calloused hands.
He cupped Leo’s small elbows, his thumbs lightly stroking the fabric of the boy’s sweater.
“You’re so big,” Dante whispered, his voice cracking into a ragged sob. “You have your mother’s strong heart.”
Leo smiled, pointing toward Dante’s collar. “You have a shiny falcon on your button! Just like the drawing in Mommy’s book!”
Dante’s eyes darted to mine, a fresh wave of tears shining in his lashes.
In the small apartment in Bern, through four years of lonely nights, I had kept a single leather-bound notebook of our family history for Leo.
I had sketched the Moretti falcon crest on the first page, telling Leo that his father was a brave guardian across the sea who watched over the ports from high towers.
I had never taught my son to hate the man who gave him his eyes.
Dante scooped Leo into his arms, rising from the floor with an effortless, protective strength, lifting the boy high against his broad chest.
Leo giggled, wrapping his arms securely around Dante’s neck, resting his cheek against Dante’s stubbled jaw without a shred of hesitation.
Dante closed his eyes, inhaling the sweet scent of baby shampoo, warm wool, and clean rain, his arms tightening around the boy with a fierce, unbreakable desperation.
For four years, he had been a man without an anchor, existing only to manage ledgers and enforce territorial borders.
Now, holding his child against his heart, the empty shell of Dante Moretti was suddenly filled with an explosive, roaring purpose.
Four armed Moretti enforcers stepped through the ruined suite doorway, their tactical carbines lowered, led by Dante’s chief lieutenant, Marco.
Marco looked at the boy in Dante’s arms, then at Dante’s face, and immediately lowered his head in solemn, reverent acknowledgment.
“Boss,” Marco reported, his voice low and urgent. “The perimeter around the hotel is sealed. Two of Victoria’s mercenaries are in custody downstairs. The third sang before he passed out.”
Dante didn't open his eyes immediately, continuing to gently pat Leo’s back.
“Where is she, Marco?” Dante asked, his voice returning to that terrifying, arctic calm that signaled the absolute end of a life.
“She’s at the family estate in Lake Forest,” Marco answered. “She has six armed guards from her private logistics payroll, and she’s currently liquidating the European bearer bonds from the master safe.”
Dante slowly opened his eyes, looking down at me as I stood beside the bed.
May you like
He reached out his free hand, taking my fingers in his, his grip warm, solid, and utterly immovable.
“The four years of waiting are over, Elena,” Dante said, his gray eyes burning with lethal, absolute certainty. “Today, we bury the monster. And tomorrow, we take our son home.”
