The blackness had fallen like a shroud over London, and Dante stood in the blackness beyond Giovanni's apartment, staring at the golden light pouring from the windows.
He'd stood there for hours, rigid, his mind a battleground of conflicting loyalties. The gun in his pocket felt heavier than ever before. Not because of its weight, but because of what it represented.
This night.
The word reverberated in his head like a death knell. This evening, he would either become the murderer his father desired or be the traitor to everything he'd ever been taught to believe.
Beyond the window, he was able to observe Giovanni pacing his kitchen—boiling tea, reading the day newspaper, savoring the serene life of a man who had chosen serenity over ambition. The same man who had walked the same dark streets as Dante's father but had mustered the strength to turn away.
Dante's phone buzzed again. Another message from the Don.
"Status report. Now."
He said nothing. Instead, he watched as Giovanni settled into his regular chair, the same one he'd occupied every evening for the past three days. A man of routine. A man of peace.
The gun felt icy against his ribcage.
He'd killed before. Countless times. But never like this. Never a good man. Never a man who'd done nothing but take a different path.
The window in Giovanni's home flashed with light, and Dante watched him stand, walk to the kitchen, return with a hot cup. The man was completely unaware that death watched from the sidewalk below.
Dante's hold on the gun tightened.
It would be quick. A clean shot through the window. Efficient. Painless. Professional.
But something restrained his hand.
Not fear. Not hesitation. But something else altogether.
He thought of Fianna. The smile in the photo on the beach. Her look at him across the street, the way her eyes appeared to see right through to the very soul of him. What she would think if she were ever to know what he had done.
The thought twisted his stomach.
He had been trained to be a killer since he was born. His father had made sure of it. But now, for the first time, he was beginning to understand. To care about what happened because of his actions. To care about the people who would be left behind. To care about what he wanted to become.
The phone rang once more.
"Answer me."
Dante looked at the note, then the man in the window. Giovanni read now, ignorant of all, absorbed in his book, unaware that his destiny was balanced on a thread.
What would happen with Fianna if he killed her father? Would she ever realize why? Would she spend the rest of her life with the questions of why her father had died?
The response was straightforward: No. She would never understand. Because there was nothing to understand. Giovanni had done nothing wrong except to prefer love over power.
And that wasn't a crime. It was a decision that had taken more bravery than Dante had ever shown.
He recalled his father's advice: "Don't mix up sentiment and strategy." But what if sentiment was all he had left? What if strategy had reduced him to something less than a man?
The gun was heavier yet.
He had a choice. He could shoot and be the killer his father wanted him to be. Or he could walk away and be the man he was beginning to think he could be.
The choice was his. And for the first time in his life, he was beginning to understand what that actually meant.
He watched Giovanni for another hour, observing the man's every step, every move, every moment of his peaceful evening routine. And with each passing minute, his decision was even more clear.
Giovanni was a good man. A man who had loved rather than tyrannized. A man who had protected his daughter from the dark. A man who should have been given permission to live.
And Dante was beginning to understand that he wanted to be the kind of man who could see that.
The phone beeped once more.
"Final warning."
Dante looked at the note, then at the man in the window. Giovanni went on reading, unaware of the drama in front of his building.
He made up his mind.
Slowly, cautiously, he pulled the gun out of his jacket and held it to the light. The metal glinted cold and lethal under the streetlight's glare.
Then, with equal care, tucked it into his pocket.
He had made his decision.
He would not kill Giovanni Moretti.
Not because of fear. Not because of weakness. But because of an understanding of what it is to be human.
To care about the outcome of his actions. To care about the human lives that would be left in his wake. To care about what kind of man he wanted to be.
He went away from the window and out into the night, leaving Giovanni to his peaceful night's rest, unaware that his life was just saved.
The phone rang again, but Dante did not glance. He knew what his father would say. He knew what he would do if he took that route.
But for the first time in his life, he knew too what it was to make a decision that was purely his own.
He walked through fog-shrouded streets, his mind clearer than it had been in days. He had made his decision. He had chosen humanity over duty.
And somewhere in the city, Fianna remained unaware of the fact that her father had just been saved by a man who was only beginning to understand what it was to be human.
The fog closed round him like a shroud, but for the first time ever, it did not feel like prison. It felt like freedom.
He had made a choice.
And he was willing to pay the price.