Chapter 6 - The Night the Glass Broke
Dante reached the gallery before the police finished taping off the block.
Lena saw him through the SUV window.
No coat. No umbrella. Rain soaking through his black shirt. Marco had clearly called him before anyone knew whether the gunman was gone.
Dante opened the rear door.
His eyes went directly to the blood on Lena’s sleeve.
“Show me.”
“It’s glass.”
“Show me.”
She rolled the fabric up.
The cut was shallow, three inches along the outside of her forearm.
Dante exhaled.
Only then did Lena realize how frightened he had been.
Sophia, sitting beside her, looked between them.
“You two have a very specific energy.”
“Not now,” Lena said.
“Absolutely now.”
Marco appeared.
“Shooter used a suppressed rifle from the parking structure. Two rounds. First hit the window. Second hit the brick above the entrance.”
Dante’s face changed.
“Warning?”
“Maybe.”
“Or correction,” Lena said.
They looked at her.
She continued.
“If Vale wanted me dead, why shoot twice from that distance and miss both times?”
Marco nodded slowly.
“Could be telling you to back off.”
Dante looked furious.
“At her?”
“At you,” Lena said. “Through me.”
That anger became something colder.
“No.”
She knew the word was not meant for her.
It was a decision.
Lena grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t.”
He looked down.
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever just happened in your head.”
“My head is none of your business.”
“You walked bleeding into my shop. We are past private thoughts.”
Sophia muttered, “I’m writing that down.”
Dante ignored her.
“Someone fired at you.”
“And if you answer with ten guns, what happens next?”
“They stop.”
“No. Somebody else answers with twelve.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“You think this is a debate club?”
“I think people like you have spent generations calling revenge security.”
Marco went very still.
Dante’s eyes sharpened.
“Careful.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t understand everything.”
“Then explain.”
Rain drummed on the SUV roof.
Dante looked away.
“My father was killed when I was twenty-seven.”
Lena’s anger paused.
“He was leaving a restaurant. Two men in a stolen car. They shot his driver first.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He had enemies because he made enemies. I inherited them.”
“And you think killing yours makes the math better?”
“No.”
The answer surprised her.
Dante looked tired.
“I think sometimes there are no clean choices. Only choices where fewer people get buried.”
Lena sat back.
“That is a terrible way to live.”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of it hurt more than argument.
Marco cleared his throat.
“We need to move.”
Dante looked at Lena.
“Will you come somewhere secure tonight?”
She hesitated.
“For one night.”
“Your choice of location.”
“Not your house.”
“Fine.”
“Sophia comes.”
Sophia raised a hand.
“I was going to demand that.”
Dante nodded.
Marco booked two rooms at a hotel owned by no Moretti entity and registered them under Sophia’s gallery company.
At midnight, Lena sat on the edge of the bed staring at the cut on her arm.
Sophia emerged from the bathroom.
“You’re in love.”
Lena looked up.
“I am not.”
“You didn’t deny liking him this time.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“You grabbed a mafia boss’s wrist and told him not to start a war.”
“I was angry.”
“You were scared of what war would do to him.”
Lena looked away.
Sophia sat beside her.
“He scares you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he’d hurt you?”
“No.”
“That wasn’t hesitation.”
“No.”
Sophia nodded.
“That may be worse.”
“How?”
“Because trust is more dangerous than fear.”
At two in the morning, someone knocked.
Three soft knocks.
Lena looked through the peephole.
Dante.
She opened the door but kept the chain latched.
“You’re learning,” he said.
“You’re annoying.”
“Also consistent.”
She let him in.
He carried two coffees.
“At two a.m.?”
“I assumed sleep was unlikely.”
“Correct.”
They sat by the window.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then Dante said, “Matteo vanished.”
Lena turned.
“After the gallery?”
“Before the shots.”
“That looks bad.”
“Yes.”
“Does it prove anything?”
“No.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I want it not to be him.”
There it was.
Not the boss.
The cousin.
The boy who had grown up with somebody he trusted.
Lena softened.
“How long have you known him?”
“Since I was six.”
“Did he know your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Was he with you when your father died?”
“Yes.”
“That makes betrayal harder.”
Dante stared into his coffee.
“Betrayal is only possible when trust came first.”
Lena considered that.
“What would make him help Vale?”
“Money. Fear. Resentment. Something I haven’t seen.”
“Or someone forcing him.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re hoping.”
“Yes.”
Dante looked at her.
“I don’t want to become my father.”
“What was he like?”
“Certain.”
She smiled faintly.
“That sounds familiar.”
“He believed hesitation was weakness. Mercy was an invitation. Every problem had a person attached to it, so he solved people.”
“And you?”
“I’m trying to solve systems.”
“How?”
“By converting the family companies. Clean books. Outside audits. Ending the cash businesses. Selling properties that only exist because somebody was intimidated into surrendering them.”
“That sounds less cinematic.”
“It’s much more expensive.”
She laughed.
Dante’s expression softened.
“You should laugh more.”
“You should get shot less.”
“Fair.”
They sat quietly.
Then Lena asked, “Why flowers?”
“What?”
“The first morning. You said your mother liked white roses. But why my shop? There are ten florists closer to the waterfront.”
Dante looked out at the city.
“When my father died, everyone came to the house. Politicians. Businessmen. Men who kissed my hand because they were afraid of what I might become.”
“That sounds awful.”
“My mother had been gone eight years. The house was full of flowers, but none of them smelled real.”
He glanced at her.
“A week later, I walked past your shop. You were arguing with a customer about peonies.”
“I do not argue.”
“You absolutely argue.”
“What was the disagreement?”
“He wanted flowers out of season. You told him nature did not care about his budget.”
Lena remembered.
Dante continued.
“You looked like you belonged to yourself.”
The room went quiet.
Lena did not know what to do with the tenderness of that observation.
“You watched me?”
“From the sidewalk. Twice, maybe three times.”
“That sounds slightly creepy.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
Then his phone vibrated.
He read the screen.
The smile vanished.
“What?”
“Marco found Matteo’s car.”
“Where?”
“Abandoned near Red Hook.”
“Matteo?”
“No.”
Dante stood.
Lena rose too.
“Don’t go alone.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t kill anybody.”
His face became unreadable.
“Lena.”
“I mean it.”
He looked at her for several seconds.
Then nodded once.
“I’ll try to make choices you can live with.”
She shook her head.
“No. Make choices you can live with.”
Something in him stilled.
Dante left.
At four forty-six in the morning, Marco found Matteo alive in an empty warehouse, tied to a chair with two broken fingers and a message pinned to his jacket.
STOP CLEANING THE FAMILY.
When Dante arrived, Matteo looked at him through one swollen eye.
“I didn’t betray you.”
Dante cut the ropes himself.
“I know.”
Matteo began to cry.
Not from pain.
From relief.
And across the warehouse floor, painted in white spray paint, was a symbol Dante had not seen since his father’s generation.
May you like
A crown split down the middle.
The mark of an alliance everyone in Brooklyn believed had died twenty years earlier.
