Chapter 23 - The Lighthouse at the Edge of the WorldThe helicopter set them down on a flat shelf of limestone two hundred yards from the crumbling stone tower of Cape Sounion. The wind here was violent, tearing off the open sea with the force of a physical blow, carrying the sharp, stinging taste of salt and the roar of dark water crashing against jagged basalt cliffs three hundred feet below.
Dante stepped out of the cabin first, ducking beneath the rotor wash, his heavy coat snapping like a flag in a gale. Paolo followed close behind, carrying a short-barreled carbine tucked tightly against his chest, his eyes scanning the black silhouette of the ruins against the starless sky.
"The thermal scope shows one heat signature inside the tower base," Paolo shouted over the roar of the engines as the helicopter lifted off immediately to circle back toward the mainland rendezvous. "Ground is clear for a quarter mile."
"Move," Dante said.
They picked their way across the uneven limestone path, their boots crunching on sea-kale and loose shale. The lighthouse was a hollow shell of gray granite, its iron lantern room rusted away decades ago, leaving a jagged crown of metal ribs open to the night sky.
Dante didn't draw his weapon as he reached the arched stone doorway. He pushed the rotted wooden door aside with his boot. It groaned on its single remaining hinge and swung inward.
Inside, sitting on an overturned wooden crate beside a smoking kerosene lantern, was a man wearing a heavy fisherman’s sweater under a soaked oilskin coat. He was old—his hair a shock of wild white, his face deeply lined by decades of salt spray and cheap tobacco. On the crate beside him lay a thick, leather-bound ledger with a faded red spine.
"You're late, Dante," the old man rasped, not looking up as he rolled a thin cigarette with yellowed fingers. "The ferry from Trieste was behind schedule."
Dante stepped into the dim circle of lantern light, his boots clicking on the damp stone floor. Paolo remained in the doorway, his carbine raised, blocking the exit.
"I didn't take a ferry, Gregor," Dante said, recognizing the voice of the man who had managed the northern smuggling routes before his father's stroke. "And I didn't come here to listen to complaints about maritime schedules. Who gave you the red ledger?"
Gregor finally looked up. His eyes were milky with cataracts, pale as winter sky, but they held the sharp, cunning intelligence of a survivor who had outlived three generations of mob bosses. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thin cloud of blue smoke into the damp air.
"The same man who paid for the burned car on the turnpike five years ago," Gregor said, his voice like dry leaves scraping across concrete. "The same man who told the Commission that Elena Vance was a liability that needed to be written off the books."
Dante’s hand didn't twitch, but the air in the stone tower seemed to drop twenty degrees. "Marcus Vance is in federal custody. His assets are frozen. He's done."
Gregor let out a dry, rattling laugh that ended in a cough. "Marcus was just the lawyer, Dante. A clever clerk with a knack for offshore tax shelters and fake dental records. He didn't have the stomach to order a hit on a girl from the docks. He needed authorization from someone higher up the ladder."
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"Name him," Dante said, his voice dropping into that absolute, lethal register that made even Paolo shift his weight nervously in the doorway.
Gregor reached out with a trembling, calloused hand, tapping the cover of the red ledger. "Open it to page four hundred and twelve. The signature isn't Marcus's. It's your uncle's."
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