Chapter 12
The interior of the Russo estate was a stark contrast to the violence outside. High vaulted ceilings, dark mahogany paneling, and Persian rugs filled the grand foyer, lit by soft, warm chandeliers. Yet despite the opulence, the house felt hollow, echoing with a quiet, lingering sadness that hung in the air like dust.
Dante led Maya up a grand winding staircase to the second floor, down a long hallway flanked by oil paintings of long-dead ancestors, stopping at a heavy oak door at the end of the wing. He pushed it open to reveal a massive child’s bedroom. It was decorated in soft lavender and cream, filled with plush toys, miniature bookshelves, and a grand canopy bed.
Dante carefully laid Sophia on the soft mattress. The moment his hands lifted away, Sophia’s small eyes fluttered open, her expression instantly tightening with panic as her gaze searched the dim room.
"Maya," Sophia whimpered, her voice tiny and brittle.
Maya immediately stepped around Dante and sat on the edge of the mattress, taking Sophia’s small, cold hands in her own. "I'm right here, sweetie. I'm not going anywhere."
"Draw?" Sophia asked, her eyes pleading.
"Tomorrow," Maya promised, leaning down to tuck the thick silk duvet around the little girl's shoulders. "Tomorrow we will draw all the pictures you want. Right now, you need to rest. Your dad and I are going to be right outside."
Sophia stared at Maya for a long moment, her small chest heaving with heavy sighs, before the sheer weight of exhaustion finally won. Her long dark eyelashes fluttered shut, her breathing slowing into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.
Maya remained sitting on the edge of the bed for another ten minutes, watching over the sleeping child until she was certain Sophia wouldn't wake up. Slowly, quietly, she stood up and backed out of the room, gently pulling the heavy door shut until it clicked into place.
Dante was standing in the dim hallway, leaning against the wooden wall opposite the door. He had removed his blood-stained suit jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to reveal thick, corded forearms covered in faint, dark tattoos. His tie was undone, dangling loosely around his open collar. He was holding two crystal glasses half-filled with amber bourbon.
He held one glass out toward her.
Maya looked at the glass, then up at his exhausted, sharp face. "I don't drink."
"Tonight you do," Dante said softly, his gravelly voice low in the silent hall. "Or at least hold it. You look like you're about to collapse."
Maya hesitated, then reached out and took the heavy glass, her cold fingers brushing against his warm skin. She leaned against the wall next to him, taking a tiny sip. The harsh liquid burned down her throat, but it cut through the numbness that had taken over her body since the gunfight at Bellanote.
"How do you live like this?" Maya asked quietly, staring straight ahead at the dark wood paneling. "How can you raise a child in a place where doors are broken down and men carry guns in their jackets?"
Dante took a slow drag from his glass, his eyes fixed on the door to his daughter’s room. "I didn't choose to be born into this family, Maya. But once you inherit the crown, you either wear it or your enemies use your skull as a cup. I built these walls thirty feet high to keep the world out. I thought she was safe."
"She saw her mother taken, Dante," Maya said, turning her head to look at him. "Walls don't protect a child from what's inside her own head."
Dante turned his gaze toward her. Up close, the faint scar near his left temple stood out against his pale skin. "You talk to me like no one else dares to, Maya Bennett. My men fear me. My enemies hate me. But you... you look at me like I'm just a man who's failing."
"You aren't failing her," Maya whispered, her voice softening despite herself. "You're fighting for her. That's all a father can do."
May you like
Dante stared at her for a long, silent moment, his gray eyes searching her face with an intense, unreadable gaze that made Maya's pulse quicken. Before he could speak, a door down the corridor opened, and Luca stepped out, his expression grim.
"Dante," Luca called out softly. "The encrypted line from Brooklyn just rang. It's Lorenzo Moretti."
