Chapter 45
Dante stood among the fallen mercenaries in the rain, his chest heaving, his dark jacket streaked with mud and blood. He quickly stripped the dead men of their communication devices, ammunition, and satellite transponders, tossing the gear into the ditch. Rushing back to the passenger side of the SUV, he ripped the door open, his heart hammering with a panic he had never known in combat. "Maya! Are you hit? Sophia!" Inside the darkened cabin, Maya was breathing heavily, her body trembling violently as she held a terrified Sophia beneath her coat. "We're okay," Maya gasped, her voice shaking as she looked up through the shadows. "We’re not hit... but Dante, the stress... the baby. My water just broke."
The words struck Dante harder than any bullet ever could. The blood drained from his face, leaving his sharp features pale in the dim interior light. Maya was barely thirty-four weeks along; they were trapped on an isolated mountain pass miles from the nearest city, with a disabled vehicle, a wounded lieutenant, and a hostile syndicate hunting their bloodline. Dante closed his eyes for a single second, forcing down the terror rising in his throat and letting the cold, calculating mind of the mob boss take command. He reached out, cupping Maya’s face with his large, warm hand, his thumb wiping a tear from her cheek. "Look at me, Maya. Look at my eyes. You are not going to lose this baby. I am going to get you to Rome, and we are going to deliver our daughter in safety. Trust me."
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Dante moved to the front of the SUV, inspecting the damage. The front axle was broken, and the vehicle was immobilized. But thirty yards back down the road, idling in the trees where the ambushers had staged their approach, sat an unmarked tactical van with its engine quietly purring. Dante sprinted through the rain, cleared the vehicle of any secondary threats, and backed it up beside their ruined SUV. Working with desperate speed, he transferred Matteo into the rear bench, secured Sophia in the middle seat, and gently lifted Maya into the front, wrapping her in dry wool blankets from their emergency packs. Maya winced, her knuckles turning white as an intense contraction seized her abdomen, but she bit her lip, refusing to cry out and frighten Sophia.
Dante jumped into the driver’s seat, slamming the van into gear and tearing down the secondary logging roads that bypassed the blocked bridge. The city of Rome was sixty miles to the south—an hour’s drive through winding mountain passes that felt like an eternity. As the van raced through the storm, Dante dialed an encrypted, unlisted frequency on the satellite phone, a number he had memorized years ago and prayed he would never have to use. The line clicked open on the second ring, answered by the cold, gravelly voice of an old ally who had retired to the shadows of the Vatican’s private hospital network. "Dr. Rossi," Dante spoke, his voice cutting through the static with absolute, desperate authority. "This is Dante Russo. Clear the surgical suite in the private wing of the clinic on the Aventine Hill. My wife is in premature labor, and we are coming in hot. If anyone tries to intercept us, have your men shoot to kill."
