Chapter 29 - The Flight to London
Forty-eight hours later, Dante’s private jet was cutting through the stratosphere high above the Atlantic Ocean, bound for London Heathrow.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was entirely focused. Spread across the large walnut table were financial audits, legal briefs, and certified affidavits from Dr. Weber.
Elena sat near the window, staring out at the endless expanse of clouds stretching beneath the moonlight. She held a silver pen between her fingers, tapping it against her knee in a steady, precise rhythm.
Dante walked over from the private lounge area, holding two crystal glasses of aged scotch. He handed one to her, sitting down in the leather seat opposite her.
"You've been quiet for the last hour," Dante observed, his dark eyes studying her face. "Thinking about the press conference?"
"I was thinking about the first time my father brought me to the Royal Albert Hall," Elena said softly, not looking away from the window. "I was twelve years old. He told me that music was the only language corruption couldn't buy. For a long time, I thought he was wrong because the people running the institutions proved him right every single day."
Dante leaned forward, placing his glass down on the table. He reached across and covered her hand with his warm, steady fingers. "Your father wasn't wrong, Elena. He just didn't have the right partner to help him defend it."
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Elena turned her head, looking at him. The shadow of the past that had haunted her for years finally lifted entirely, replaced by the profound, unshakable certainty that she was no longer fighting alone.
She turned her hand over, intertwining her fingers with his. "Let's finish this, Dante."
