New York City, 1995.
The city was louder than anything Dante had ever known. Car horns blared in endless traffic, neon lights bled into the night, and steam curled from the subway grates like the breath of some great beast. For a boy who had only ever known snowbound fields and quiet villages, New York felt like another world entirely.
But Dante wasn't here to be amazed. His crimson pendant pressed cold against his chest, a constant reminder of why he had come. His satchel — stuffed with charred scraps of his father's notes and what little he had salvaged — felt heavier than his small shoulders should bear.
The spires of St. Patrick's Cathedral rose above him, solemn and unmoving against the chaos of the city. Eva's last words echoed in his ears, clear as if she were still holding him close:
"Go to New York… to St. Patrick's Cathedral. Find Father Matteo. He will guide you."
The heavy doors creaked as he pushed them open. Candlelight flickered across rows of pews, casting long shadows. Dante hesitated, his boots clicking softly on the stone floor.
Then a voice called from the altar.
"You planning on sneaking around like a thief, or are you going to come in like a Christian?"
Dante froze.
The man who stepped out from behind the altar wasn't what he expected. Father Matteo wore the black robes of a priest, but his sleeves were rolled up, and a rag was tucked into his belt. His hair was silver at the temples, his face lined, but his grin was sharp and mischievous.
"You're… Father Matteo?" Dante asked, clutching his pendant.
"Depends," the priest said, squinting at him. "You selling cookies? Because if you are, I'll take three boxes of shortbread. None of that peanut butter nonsense."
Dante blinked. "What?"
Matteo chuckled, waving a hand. "Relax, boy. Just making sure you're not some demon in disguise. They hate humor. You crack a joke, they hiss like cats."
Despite himself, Dante almost smiled.
Matteo's expression softened when his eyes fell on the crimson pendant gleaming against Dante's chest. The grin faded into something gentler, heavier. He set the rag aside and walked toward him, kneeling so their eyes met.
"Eva's boy," he said quietly, voice low with recognition. "And Sparda's."
Dante's throat tightened, but he nodded.
Matteo patted his shoulder, then stood with a groan. "Well then. Guess my quiet retirement just got ruined." His grin returned, crooked and warm. "Come on, kid. You look like you could use a hot meal… and the world's strangest bedtime story."
Father Matteo led Dante away from the great hall of the cathedral, through a narrow side passage that smelled faintly of incense and dust. The grandeur of marble and stained glass gave way to something smaller, homier. A cluttered study crammed with books leaned against a little kitchen, where a battered pot already sat waiting on the stove.
"Sit," Matteo said, pointing Dante toward a wooden chair. "You look like a strong wind would knock you flat."
Dante hesitated, clutching his satchel like a lifeline. Matteo didn't press, just busied himself at the stove, whistling tunelessly. Soon, the smell of simmering broth and garlic filled the room.
When he set a steaming bowl in front of Dante, the boy barely glanced at it. His stomach clenched at the sight. He hadn't eaten properly since—since before the fire.
Matteo noticed but said nothing. He folded his arms, tapped a finger against his chin, then muttered, "Hmm. Maybe I should sprinkle in holy water. Make the soup blessed. Or maybe just dump in another pound of garlic. Works on demons, works on vampires… might even work on stubborn boys."
Dante blinked at him, uncertain.
Matteo leaned closer, stage-whispering, "Course, if I eat it too, the whole cathedral will reek. You want to be the kid who makes God's house smell like an Italian kitchen?"
A sound escaped Dante — not quite a laugh, but close enough. Matteo grinned.
"There it is," he said softly. He slid the bowl closer. "Eat, Dante. You'll need your strength."
Dante picked up the spoon. His hands shook, but he forced the first bite down. The warmth spread through him, thawing the cold that had settled deep inside since that night. He didn't realize until then how hungry he really was.
Matteo sat across from him, eating his own bowl with gusto. Between mouthfuls he added, "Not bad, eh? Be honest, it's the garlic, isn't it? Puts hair on your chest. You'll thank me when you're older."
Dante rolled his eyes, but this time, he almost smiled.
When Dante finished his soup, Matteo took the empty bowl, humming to himself as he stacked the dishes. "Good. You ate more than I expected. Must mean you'll live through the night. That's step one."
"Step one of what?" Dante asked, brow furrowed.
"Step one of being a pain in my neck," Matteo replied, smirking. "Come on, kid. You need a bed."
He led Dante through a narrow hall to a small room tucked beside the study. The space was plain — a narrow cot, a wooden desk, a faded crucifix hanging above the door. It smelled faintly of old books and candle wax, but to Dante, it was the warmest place he'd seen since his home burned.
"This'll be yours," Matteo said. "Not much, but the roof doesn't leak, and the mice pay rent."
Dante frowned. "…Mice?"
Matteo winked. "Relax. They only bother boys who don't wash their feet."
For the first time in days, Dante's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. He set his satchel down by the desk, lay back on the cot, and clutched his pendant against his chest. His eyes closed, heavy with exhaustion.
Sleep came quickly.
And with it, the fire.
He was back in Russia, the night lit with sickly green flames. Vergil's hand slipped from his own, Yamato flashing as it disappeared into the gate. Eva's voice cried his name, then broke into silence. The house crumbled, the air thick with ash. Dante screamed, reaching for them, but there was nothing left — only burning shadows closing in.
He bolted upright in bed, gasping, his body slick with cold sweat. The room spun. His hand clutched his pendant so tight it cut into his palm.
"You saw it, didn't you?"
Dante froze. Father Matteo stood in the doorway, a lantern in his hand. His face was calm, almost knowing.
Dante's voice shook. "How—how did you—?"
Matteo stepped inside, setting the lantern on the desk. "You've lost your family, boy. You'll keep losing them every night until you find a way to carry it. That's how grief works."
Dante looked down, his throat tight. "It feels so real."
"It is," Matteo said softly. He pulled the chair from the desk and sat, his weight creaking the wood. "But you're still here. And as long as you are, those dreams don't get the final word. You do."
Dante blinked, the words sinking into him like sparks in the ashes.
Matteo leaned back, smirking faintly. "Besides, if I've got to put up with you, the least you can do is stop screaming at two in the morning. I'm old, kid. I need my beauty sleep."
Dante stared at him — then gave a weak, shaky laugh.
Matteo nodded, satisfied. "Good. That's better. Now try again. The nightmares won't vanish overnight, but you're not facing them alone anymore."
Dante fell back onto the cot, still gripping his pendant, his breathing slow and steady. This time, no fire came. No screams. Just sleep.
Father Matteo lingered in the doorway, watching him. The boy's face, so sharp with grief moments ago, softened into something almost peaceful.
"Rest easy, kid," Matteo murmured. "The world can wait a little while."
He closed the door gently and moved down the corridor to his study. Among the shelves of worn Bibles and demonology texts sat a polished bronze mirror etched with wards. Lighting a circle of candles, he muttered a prayer under his breath.
The surface rippled like water.
A calm, measured voice emerged from the glass. "Father Matteo. You summoned me."
Matteo gave a wry smile. "Forgive the late hour, Ancient One, but I doubt demons keep office hours."
The figure of a bald woman robed in flowing yellow appeared within the mirror's shimmer. Her gaze was sharp, steady, and utterly unshaken by his humor.
"The boy," she said.
Matteo nodded. "Eva's son. Sparda's bloodline lives. Demons already found him once. They'll keep coming."
"He must be protected."
Matteo sighed, folding his arms. "Protected, yes. But he's not just some lamb to keep behind cathedral walls. He's got his father's eyes. His mother's fire. If we cage him, he'll break the bars himself."
The Ancient One's expression did not change, though her voice carried the weight of certainty. "If Lilith learns of him, she will stop at nothing to claim him. The pendants… are a key. And keys can open more than doors."
Matteo's jaw tightened. "I won't tell him. Not yet. He's a boy, not a soldier. But I'll teach him. Keep him steady until the day he chooses to fight."
The Ancient One inclined her head ever so slightly. "Do so. When the darkness gathers, he will be called. His bloodline binds him to the fate of this world… and of Hell itself."
The mirror rippled, the image fading into nothing.
Matteo sat heavily at his desk, rubbing his temples. "Midnight Sons, demon wars, prophecies…" He glanced down the hall where Dante slept. "He's just a kid who lost his mother."
Still, as he snuffed out the candles, he whispered to himself: "One step at a time."
And yet he knew — Sparda's legacy had returned to the world, and nothing would ever be simple again.