Chapter 47
The relief that washed over Dante was a profound, overwhelming wave, but it lasted only until his encrypted satellite phone buzzed against his tactical vest with an unfamiliar, localized signal. Stepping away from the nursery window where Sophia was gazing in quiet awe at her newborn sister, Dante answered the call, bringing the receiver to his ear. A smooth, mocking voice dripping with a heavy Parisian accent drifted through the line, accompanied by the background hum of an idling high-speed marine engine. "Congratulations on the birth of your daughter, Dante," Antoine drawled, his tone laced with chilling, arrogant amusement. "A daughter is a fragile thing, isn't it? Much like an empire built on the promises of a dead wife and a former waitress."
Dante’s blood ran colder than ice, but his voice remained flat, terrifyingly calm, devoid of any panic that the Frenchman could feed upon. "You are tracking the medical frequencies," Dante stated, his mind instantly analyzing how Antoine had intercepted their location. "You have people inside the municipal dispatch." Antoine chuckled, a dry, grating sound. "I have people everywhere, mon ami. I know you are in the clinic on the Aventine Hill. I know you have five men guarding the gate and a doctor with trembling hands. I could level that palazzo with mortars right now, but that would be so terribly impersonal, wouldn't it? I want to look into your eyes when I take what you stole from the Mediterranean trade."
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"Name the place," Dante said, his knuckles whitening around the phone until the casing creaked. "You and me. No syndicates. No mercenaries. You want my crown? Come take it from my hands." Antoine paused, the amusement fading from his voice, replaced by the vicious, predatory hunger of a warlord who believed he held all the cards. "The abandoned rail freight yard at the mouth of the Tiber, near Ostia Antica. Pier Fourteen. You have forty minutes, Dante. Come alone, or I send three teams with heavy thermite into that clinic’s maternity ward. Let's see if the legendary Don of New York still knows how to die like a man."
The line clicked dead. Dante slowly lowered the phone, staring at the darkened reflection of himself in the hallway window. He was a father of two now. He had built a life of sunlight and flour, of bedtime stories and peaceful mornings in the vineyard. But to keep that light burning, he had to descend into the pitch-black abyss one final time. He walked back to the private recovery room, pushing the heavy wooden door open with gentle care. Maya was awake, propped up against the pillows, her face pale and exhausted but glowing with an ethereal, maternal radiance as she held the tiny, swaddled bundle against her chest. Sophia sat on the edge of the mattress, gently touching the baby’s minuscule fingers. Maya looked up, her perceptive brown eyes instantly catching the shadow lingering behind Dante’s gaze. She knew that look. It was the look of a man walking into the furnace.
