Chapter 7 - The Rage of Dante Moretti
Back at the Plaza Hotel, Dante’s encrypted phone vibrated against his hip—a three-pulse emergency signal indicating a total breach at the penthouse.
Dante stopped in the middle of a conversation with a senator.
His face didn't pale. It transformed into something ancient, terrifying, and demonic.
Mara saw the change instantly. She grabbed his arm. “Dante? What is it?”
“The penthouse,” Dante whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, lethal rage that made the air around them freeze. “We move. Now.”
Without a word to their hosts, Dante grabbed Mara’s hand and practically dragged her toward the private exit.
Outside, three black armored SUVs pulled up to the curb, tires screeching against the wet pavement. Dante threw open the door of the lead vehicle, shoving Mara inside before climbing in beside her.
“Drive!” Dante roared at his chauffeur. “Call the strike team! Block every exit at the Aurelia!”
Mara’s hands were shaking violently as the heavy SUV tore through the red lights of Manhattan, going eighty miles an hour through the fog.
“Lena...” Mara choked out, her eyes wide with terror. “Dante... is she okay?”
Dante didn't answer. He opened a compartment under his seat, pulling out two heavy automatic handguns, racking the slides with clean, metallic clicks. His face was a mask of cold death.
“If they hurt her,” Dante whispered, his grey eyes burning like coals in the dark vehicle, “I will wipe the name Valenti from the earth.”
Within five minutes, the SUVs screeched to a halt outside the Hotel Aurelia.
The lobby was in chaos. Hotel staff were running for the doors as smoke billowed from the elevator shafts.
Dante didn't wait for the security guards. He headed straight for the private stairwell, taking three steps at a time, sprinting up eighty flights of stairs with the terrifying speed of a man possessed by a demon.
Mara followed right behind him, ignoring the burning agony in her lungs and her aching heels, driven entirely by the image of little Lena alone in the dark.
When they reached the penthouse floor, the heavy fire doors were blown off their hinges.
The corridor smelled of ozone, burnt carpet, and copper blood.
Frank was lying against the wall, breathing weakly, holding a wound in his side. When he saw Dante, he lifted a trembling hand.
“Mr. Moretti...” Frank wheezed. “They... they went into the nursery...”
Dante didn't stop. He kicked open the double doors of the penthouse, weapon raised.
Inside the nursery, Lawson was standing in the center of the room, holding seven-year-old Lena by the arm. The little girl was struggling fiercely, kicking and scratching at his tactical vest.
“Put her down,” Dante said.
His voice wasn't a shout. It was a sound so deep, so cold, that even Lawson froze in place.
Lawson turned, pointing his pistol at Lena’s head. “Step back, Moretti! One move and I blow her—"
Before Lawson could finish the sentence, a heavy copper mixing bowl came flying through the doorway with terrifying force, smashing directly into Lawson’s face with a deafening CLANG!
Lawson stumbled backward, disoriented, blood spurting from his broken nose.
In that half-second of distraction, Lena bit down hard on Lawson’s wrist. Lawson dropped her with a yell of pain.
Dante didn't hesitate.
Two silenced shots echoed through the room.
Lawson collapsed onto the carpet, dead before he hit the floor.
Silence returned to the ruined penthouse.
Mara stood in the doorway, panting heavily, holding a heavy iron rolling pin she had grabbed from the hall table, her hair messy and her emerald dress torn at the hem.
Dante dropped his weapon, dropping to his knees on the ruined carpet, holding out his arms.
“Lena!” Dante cried out, his voice cracking with emotion.
Lena didn't run to her father right away.
She looked at Lawson’s body, then at her father, and finally at Mara standing in the doorway with the rolling pin.
The little girl took a deep breath. She raised her head, her dark eyes flashing with a fierce, unbreakable spirit that she had inherited from her father and learned from Mara.
She looked at Mara and spoke.
Not a whisper. Not a rusty sound.
A clear, loud, beautiful voice that carried through the ruined penthouse like a silver bell.
“Mara!” Lena shouted, running across the room and throwing her arms around Mara’s waist. “You hit him with the bowl!”
Mara dropped the rolling pin. She dropped to her knees, pulling the little girl into a tight, desperate embrace, sobbing aloud as she kissed Lena’s hair over and over again.
Dante froze on the floor.
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Tears spilled freely down the mob boss’s face as he listened to his daughter’s voice—the voice he had waited two long years to hear again.
He crawled over, wrapping his broad arms around both of them, pulling Mara and Lena against his chest, burying his face in Mara’s neck as the three of them wept together in the ruined room.
