The moment I saw the waiter shove her face against the marble floor

The safehouse on the Palisades was not a safehouse in the traditional sense; it was a limestone fortress perched on a sheer cliff overlooking the Hudson River, surrounded by three acres of dense pine forest and protected by an air-gapped perimeter security system that made the Pentagon look like a leaky sieve.

When Marcus pulled the Maybach to a stop beneath the grand stone portico, the heavy oak doors opened instantly.

Dr. Alistair, a retired military surgeon who had patched up my bullet wounds and broken ribs for the past decade, was waiting in the foyer with his medical bag open.

"Inside, El," I said gently, guiding her out of the car. "We’re going to get that cut cleaned up, and then we’re going to talk about your future."

"I don't want to be a burden, Dante," she murmured, wincing slightly as her twisted ankle touched the pavement. "You have... you have enemies. I saw what happened tonight. Those men... they looked like they wanted to tear you apart."

"Those men are currently wondering if they’ll survive the week," I replied, lifting her easily into my arms. She weighed almost nothing—starved by years of poverty and stress. "You are not a burden. You are a Valenti. And in this family, we take care of our own."

Dr. Alistair led us to a warm, wood-paneled guest suite on the second floor, dominated by a massive stone fireplace and a king-sized bed covered in down comforters.

While the doctor carefully disinfected the cut on her cheek and wrapped her twisted ankle in a supportive bandage, I stood by the window, watching the dark, churning waters of the Hudson far below.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was an encrypted satellite call from Viktor, who was still monitoring the police bands in Manhattan.

"Boss," Viktor’s voice crackled through the secure earpiece. "Moretti’s hiding out at his townhouse on the Upper East Side. He’s packing bags, trying to book a private flight to Zurich out of Teterboro."

"Did he clear customs?" I asked, my voice flat.

"Negative. Our contacts at the FAA grounded his tail number twenty minutes ago. He’s trapped."

"Don't touch him yet," I ordered, a cold, calculated smile forming on my lips. "Let him pack. Let him feel the walls closing in. I want him to understand what it feels like to lose everything before we finish him."

"Understood, Boss. What about the girl?"

"Elena stays here. Double the perimeter guard. Nobody gets within a mile of this house without my express authorization."

"Consider it done."

I hung up and turned around just as Dr. Alistair was packing his instruments into his leather bag.

"She'll be fine," the doctor said, wiping his hands on a sterile towel. "Mild concussion, a sprained ankle, and a few superficial lacerations. She needs rest, good food, and about three months of peace and quiet. I’ve left a mild painkiller for the swelling."

"Thank you, Doctor," I said, handing him an envelope thick with hundred-dollar bills from my desk drawer.

Alistair didn't count it. He just pocketed the envelope with a solemn nod. "Goodnight, Dante. It’s good to have her back. I remember her nursery in Chicago."

He left quietly, the door clicking shut behind him.

I walked over to the bed. Elena was propped up against a mountain of pillows, looking smaller and younger than her twenty-eight years in one of my oversized cotton shirts that Marta, our head housekeeper, had hastily fetched from the laundry room.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "Marta’s making chicken soup. Real chicken soup, not the canned sodium bomb you’ve probably been surviving on."

A faint, tired smile touched her lips. "I didn't realize how tired I was until I sat down on this bed. It feels... it feels too soft. Like I'm going to fall through it."

"You won't fall," I promised, reaching out to pull the thick comforter up over her shoulders. "I built this floor out of reinforced steel, El. Nothing is ever going to break beneath you again."

She looked at me, her hazel eyes shining in the soft lamplight. "What happens now, Dante? What happens to Moretti? To your... business?"