Chapter 5 - The Sweetness of Revenge
The island was not a refuge; it was a trap.
Two months later, the communications went down. The satellite phones stopped connecting. The boat that was supposed to bring supplies never arrived.
Dante knew immediately. “They’ve jammed the signal. They’re coming.”
He moved with an efficiency that was terrifying to behold. He armed the villa, placed explosive charges around the perimeter of the cliff, and prepared for a siege.
“Take Lena to the cave behind the cove,” he commanded Mara, shoving a satellite beacon into her hand. “If they breach the villa, you press that button. A plane will come for you. Not for me. For you.”
“I’m not leaving you to die,” Mara said, her voice cracking.
Dante gripped her shoulders. “If you stay, we both die. And Lena loses everything. You are the only person who has made her feel alive. You have to be her future. Go!”
Mara didn't want to leave, but the look in Dante’s eyes told her that arguing was a waste of time. She grabbed Lena and ran.
They reached the cave just as the first black helicopters appeared on the horizon. The sky darkened with them, a swarm of mechanical insects coming to destroy a man who had held the world in his palm.
Mara and Lena huddled in the damp, cold darkness of the cave. The sounds of war echoed through the island—the roar of automatic gunfire, the boom of explosives, the screams of men.
Mara held Lena’s hand, praying, wishing, pleading.
Then, everything went quiet.
The silence was worse than the noise.
She waited for hours. Nothing. She reached for the satellite beacon, her thumb hovering over the button.
“Don't,” Lena whispered.
Mara froze. It was the first word she had heard from the child in two years.
“Lena?”
“They’re gone,” Lena said, her voice thin but clear. “He won.”
Mara didn't know how the child knew, but she trusted her. They waited until the sun began to rise, painting the Aegean in shades of gold and fire.
They walked back to the villa.
It was a skeleton of its former self, charred and broken. Dante sat on the front steps, his suit shredded, blood staining his white shirt. He was holding a glass of wine, staring at the sunrise.
He saw them and dropped the glass. It shattered—a sound that echoed like a bell.
May you like
He stood up, stumbled, and collapsed into their arms.
The empire was dead. The enemies were gone. Dante Moretti, the man who owned half of Manhattan, was now just a man who had everything to lose.
