Chapter 8
The first gunshot came from the orchard.
Not at us.
Into the air.
Signal.
Men began moving around the monastery.
Vale soldiers.
Six outside became nine.
Then eleven.
Crowe hadn't simply discovered us.
He had prepared for the possibility all along.
Preston whispered something ugly.
I looked at him.
“You surprised?”
“He said this location was untouchable.”
“Apparently you believed him.”
Grace grabbed my sleeve.
“If they think you've come for her, they'll move Alessia.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“Then we're out of time.”
I sent two men around the east wall.
Another two toward the rear kitchens.
I went through the chapel entrance with Preston.
Not because I trusted him.
Because Vale still might.
We made it twenty feet inside before a voice stopped us.
“Preston.”
Vincent Crowe stood above us on the stone balcony.
Gray suit.
No tie.
Gun in one hand.
Two men beside him.
Preston looked up.
“Vincent.”
Crowe's eyes moved to me.
Then Grace.
His expression changed.
“So the child remembered.”
Grace said nothing.
Crowe sighed.
“That freezer was always a mistake.”
I stared.
“You knew.”
“Of course.”
“You knew Lily was there that night.”
“Yes.”
My hands tightened.
“Did you order it?”
“No.”
He smiled slightly.
“Grace improvises badly under pressure.”
Grace lowered her eyes.
Crowe continued.
“Alessia would have remained cooperative if you people hadn't frightened her.”
I almost laughed.
“You kidnapped my wife.”
“I preserved her.”
“For what?”
“Balance.”
Mafia men love words that make cruelty sound intelligent.
“Where is she?”
Crowe smiled.
“Close.”
Preston stepped forward.
“You said none of this would come back on us.”
Crowe looked almost amused.
“You believed that?”
Preston froze.
I didn't.
I had already told him.
Crowe continued.
“You sold out the Santoros because you wanted a seat at a table.”
He looked toward me.
“Men like him never understand that nobody seats the waiter.”
Preston's face flushed.
Good.
Let humiliation do useful work.
“Where is Alessia?” I asked again.
Crowe lifted his gun slightly.
“Leave.”
“No.”
“You have Lily.”
My blood went cold.
He smiled.
“You should be grateful.”
“For what?”
“That we never needed both.”
The words echoed.
Grace closed her eyes.
Preston looked sick.
I finally understood something else.
Alessia was not merely leverage over Marco.
Lily had been insurance too.
If Alessia escaped—
If Marco rebelled—
If I discovered the truth—
Vale had another Santoro they could use.
My daughter.
That was why Grace panicked when Lily remembered.
Not because Lily could expose an old crime.
Because Lily was still part of the plan.
Crowe moved backward.
“Last chance.”
The bell rang again.
One strike.
Different signal.
My men.
The east door opened behind Crowe.
Two Santoro guards appeared.
Crowe turned.
Preston moved before I did.
He grabbed the gunman nearest us.
Maybe he wanted redemption.
Maybe survival.
I didn't care.
Chaos broke.
Short.
Violent.
Then quiet.
Crowe was on his knees.
Two of his men were pinned against the stone wall.
Another had fled deeper inside.
I grabbed Crowe by the jacket.
“Where is my wife?”
He smiled through blood at his lip.
“You're too late.”
I slammed him against the railing.
“Where?”
He looked down the corridor.
“Under the chapel.”
Grace gasped.
I released him to my men and ran.
The stairwell descended beneath the altar.
Stone.
Cold.
Narrow.
At the bottom was an iron door.
Locked.
I hit it once.
“Alessia!”
Nothing.
Again.
“Alessia!”
Then I heard it.
Weak.
From the other side.
“Raffaele?”
Eleven months disappeared.
I forgot the guns.
Grace.
Celeste.
Preston.
Vale.
Everything.
I pressed my forehead against the iron door.
“I'm here.”
Silence.
Then a sound I had dreamed about for almost a year.
My wife crying.
May you like
Not because she was dying.
Because I had finally found her.
