Chapter 5 - The Milan Ghost Returns
I stared at Dante in utter disbelief. ""What?""
""You heard me,"" Dante replied, pulling a gold lighter and a slim silver case from his pocket, though he didn't light a cigarette. He simply held them, his long fingers moving with casual grace. ""Your grandmother does not deserve to die surrounded by De Rossi's informants. And I have unresolved business with the De Rossi family that has waited far too long.""
""You don't even know me,"" I protested, my voice rising. ""Why would you risk a war with Milan for a girl who served you wine three hours ago?""
Dante turned his face toward the window, watching the glittering Manhattan skyline recede behind us as we entered New Jersey.
""Your father was not just an architect, Alessia,"" Dante said quietly, his voice dropping into a somber, reflective tone. ""Twenty-two years ago, when my family was fighting for survival during the restructuring of the northern transport lines, your father gave shelter to my younger brother in Florence. He hid him for two weeks in his studio, knowing full well what would happen if the opposition found him. He refused to take a single lira for it. He said a man does not charge for doing what is right.""
My breath hitched. My father had never spoken of that time. He had kept his integrity locked away, silent and unyielding.
""My family does not forget a debt of honor,"" Dante continued, turning back to face me with eyes that burned with cold fire. ""Luca De Rossi took your father's life, stole your legacy, and hunted you onto my soil. That makes his debt mine to collect.""
An hour later, we were boarding a private Gulfstream G650 at Teterboro Airport. There were no commercial security lines, no customs checkpoints where my fake Swiss passport would trigger alarms. Two armed security men in dark suits escorted our luggage up the stairs.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was luxurious and functional. Dante took a leather swivel chair near the forward bulkhead and opened a high-security laptop, immediately conferring in low, rapid Italian with his contacts across Europe.
I sat across from him, clutching a porcelain mug of hot tea that the flight attendant had handed me. For the first time in seven months, the suffocating paranoia that had governed every second of my waking life began to loosen its grip. Yet, in its place came a new, terrifying reality: I wasn't just running anymore. I was riding directly into the epicenter of the storm beside the most formidable mob boss in the western hemisphere.
""Sleep,"" Dante instructed without looking up from his screen as the aircraft climbed through the clouds above the Atlantic. ""You haven't slept properly in a week. When we touch down in Peretola, we move fast.""
Exhaustion, heavy and undeniable, pulled at my eyelids. Curled into the oversized leather seat with a cashmere blanket pulled over my shoulders, I closed my eyes. For the first time in what felt like years, my sleep was deep and dreamless.
Nine hours later, the private jet touched down softly on the tarmac of Florence’s Peretola airport under a gray, rain-washed dawn sky.
The Tuscan air hit me the moment the cabin door opened—damp, earthy, smelling of wet cypress and old stone. Home. But beneath the nostalgia lurked immediate danger.
Three armored black Range Rovers were waiting on the private apron. Six men in dark overcoats stood by the doors, their hands tucked close to their lapels. As Dante descended the stairs, their leader—an older Italian with silver hair and a deeply lined face—stepped forward and embraced him with quiet warmth.
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""Everything is prepared, Don Dante,"" the man said in Tuscan Italian. ""The hospice in Arezzo is secure. We placed twelve men around the perimeter two hours ago. The De Rossi scouts were already watching the entrance, but we neutralized them quietly. No alarms have been raised.""
""Good,"" Dante replied curtly. He turned to me, offering his arm to guide me down the rain-slick steps. ""Let's go, Alessia. Your Nonna is waiting.""
