[Dante’s POV]
Two weeks to orchestrate our own deaths. Cazzo. I've planned hits that took less time.
I sit in my study at three AM moving money like chess pieces. Accounts in Switzerland, the Caymans, Singapore—all under names of people who stopped existing decades ago.
The Montana property was purchased three years ago under Thomas Brennan's name, dead since 1987, whose identity I've maintained with tax returns and credit history so boring it could cure insomnia.
I'm good at building identities, creating ghosts. Usually it's someone else disappearing. This time it's me.
"The coroner confirmed everything." Marco's voice cuts through my concentration. He stands in the doorway looking like he hasn't slept in days. "Dental records will match. Bodies are similar builds. The fire will do the rest."
I nod without looking up. "And the evidence?"
"Planted. Phone records, bank transfers, text messages—all showing Lorenzo coordinating the ambush." He pauses. "When the warehouse goes up, everyone will believe his coup backfired."
"Bene," I close my laptop. "You're certain about the timeline?"
"Thirty seconds from explosion to exit. I've walked it fourteen times." His jaw tightens. "It's tight, but doable."
Thirty seconds. The difference between freedom and actually dying. I've bet my life on worse odds, but never with Valentina's life in the equation.
"The men loyal to me?" I ask.
"Will retreat through the west exit before the charges blow." Marco shifts his weight. "But some of Lorenzo's people will die. There's no way around that."
I know. Eight to twelve casualties, possibly more. Men who chose to follow an ambitious stupido into an ambush. Their blood will paint the walls while I slip out the back and become Thomas Brennan, ranch owner, ordinary coglione with a normal life.
The guilt sits in my chest like stones. Not heavy enough to stop me. Just heavy enough to remember I used to be someone who didn't calculate acceptable casualties before breakfast.
"What about Valentina?" Marco's question pulls me back.
"She stays with you. Three blocks away." I cross to the window. "The moment you see me emerge, you drive. Don't wait for confirmation."
"And if something goes wrong?"
The question surfaces like a corpse in deep water. If something goes wrong, Valentina watches me burn. Actually burn.
"Then you get her out of the city," I say flatly. "Money's already transferred to an account in her name. Documentation for a new identity. Everything she needs."
"Capo—"
"That's an order, Marco." I turn to face him. "If I don't make it out, your only job is her safety. Capisce?"
He nods slowly. Povero bastardo probably thinks I'm being noble. I'm not. I'm being practical. If I die, I need to know she lives. It's the only way I can walk into that warehouse without my hands shaking.
The days blur together—a performance of normalcy that would win awards if anyone knew they were watching.
I attend meetings with captains plotting my downfall. Smile at Lorenzo across conference tables while he smiles back, both of us pretending we don't know the other is planning murder. It's almost companionable, this mutual deception.
"The eastern territory is producing well," Lorenzo says, his tone pleasant. "No issues to report."
"Bene." I make notes on paperwork I'll never finish. "And the shipment next week?"
"All arranged." His eyes hold mine a beat too long. "Everything's in place."
Si. I bet it is. Too bad I've spent years arranging to survive exactly this scenario.
Valentina plays her part with terrifying competence. She keeps her head down, maintains routines, moves through the mansion like someone appropriately cowed. The staff see a woman who's learned her place. Lorenzo's people see proof I've brought her to heel.
Only I see the truth in how her fingers drum against her thigh during meetings—counting seconds until this is over. How she watches me across rooms with eyes that say don't you dare die on me.
We communicate in glances. A raised eyebrow: Are you alright?. A slight nod: I'm fine. Her hand brushing mine in passing: I'm here. My fingers catching hers: I know.
It's the vocabulary of people who've learned to hide in plain sight. Who trust each other with their lives because they have no other choice.
The nights are different. The nights are when the performance cracks.
Valentina curls against me in the dark, her voice soft and uncertain. "Tell me about when we met. The real version."
I pull her closer, breathing in jasmine and fear she can't quite hide. "You spilled wine on my shirt at a charity gala. Apologized so much I thought you might die of embarrassment."
"I was mortified." Her laugh is quiet. "You were this terrifying man in an expensive suit, and I'd just ruined it."
"You called it 'catastrophically expensive' when you tried to dab it with a napkin." I smile against her hair. "I fell in love with you that night. Stupido, I know."
"Not stupid." She tilts her head to look at me. "Tell me about our first date."
So I do. The restaurant I'd picked—too fancy, trying too hard. How she'd ordered the cheapest thing until I teased her into ordering what she actually wanted. How we'd talked for four hours and I'd forgotten I was supposed to be dangerous.
She tells me about watching me across rooms, trying to reconcile the gentle man who brought flowers with the whispers about Falcone enforcers. How she'd decided love was stronger than fear.
"It wasn't stupid," I murmur. "It was brave."
"Tell me about the day you proposed."
The memory surfaces—her tiny apartment, dinner I'd cooked badly, the ring I'd carried for three weeks. How I'd dropped to one knee and she'd said yes before I finished the question. How we'd made love on her terrible couch while rain hit the windows.
How I'd known, even then, that my world would destroy this beautiful thing. How I'd promised to leave it all behind.
How spectacularly I'd failed.
"We'll have that again," Valentina whispers. "After. We'll have everything we should have had five years ago."
I want to believe her. Want to believe there's a future where we're Thomas and Sarah Brennan, boring people with boring problems, arguing over what to plant in the garden. Where the most dangerous thing in my life is whether the horses need new shoes.
"Si, amore." I press my lips to her temple. "We'll have everything."
The lie tastes like ash, but I feed it to her anyway. Because acknowledging that thirty seconds is a lifetime when explosives are involved would make these final nights unbearable.
So instead we remember. We build a past that's safer than the present, warmer than the uncertain future. We make love slowly, like people trying to memorize skin. We talk until dawn about the life we almost had and the life we're trying to reach.
And I don't tell her that I've added a clause to Marco's orders: if something goes wrong, if I don't make it out, he's to tell her I loved her. That everything—the wedding, the games, the five years of distance—was me trying to protect the only thing that ever mattered.
Codardo. Even now, I'm hedging bets. Planning for failure while pretending I've planned for success.
But that's what I do. Calculate odds. Prepare contingencies. Survive impossible situations by being smarter, faster, more ruthless than everyone else.
In two weeks, I'll find out if I'm smart enough.
If thirty seconds is enough.
If love is stronger than fire.
Cazzo. I really hope I'm right about this.