Chapter 11 - Ghosts of Amalfi
The quiet sanctuary of our coastal Italian villa shattered on a Tuesday morning. I came into Mia’s room carrying fresh fruit, only to find her sleeping soundly while a dark, thick envelope rested directly across her chest.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I grabbed the envelope before Mia could wake, my fingers trembling as I broke the heavy red wax seal stamped with an unfamiliar emblem—a coiled viper wrapping around an inverted cross. Inside was a single high-resolution photograph taken less than three hours earlier: Dante standing on our secluded balcony at dawn, caught directly in the crosshairs of a sniper’s scope.
Across the bottom of the photo, written in dark cursive ink, was a single line: Resurrected kings still bleed.
I ran down the stone steps into Dante’s study, shoving the photograph into his chest. His eyes darkened, all warmth instantly evaporating into the cold, calculation of the underworld figure he had tried so hard to leave behind.
“It’s not Valerio’s enforcers,” Dante whispered, his jaw clenching until the muscle pulsed against his jaw line. “Valerio was just a pawn on the regional board. This seal belongs to the Iron Council—the five old families of Europe who govern international trafficking. They didn't just want my empire destroyed, Claire. They wanted my bloodline wiped from the earth to erase a seventy-year debt my father owed them.”
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“We killed the fakes, Dante!” I shouted, tears of frustration spilling down my cheeks. “We burned the shell companies! The feds officially declared you dead!”
“Then someone in Washington traded my death certificate for a seat at their table,” Dante said, rising from his chair and opening a hidden floor panel beneath the rug. Inside lay two matte-black tactical sidearms and satellite phones. “They know I’m alive. And more importantly, they know where our daughter sleeps.”
