[Dante’s POV]
The day arrives gray and cold, appropriately apocalyptic for a morning where I'm planning my own death. The universe has a sense of dramatic timing.
I wake before dawn because sleep is for people who aren't orchestrating elaborate fake executions. Valentina lies beside me, breathing steady and deep, completely unaware I've been watching her like some lovesick idiot instead of the ruthless crime boss I'm supposed to be.
Cazzo. Love has made me pathetic. Up until now I was executing people for looking at me wrong. Now I'm counting a woman's breaths like rosary beads.
I count her breaths like prayers—inhale, exhale, the rhythm that's kept me sane through two weeks of preparation. Her dark hair spreads across my pillow, one hand curled against my chest.
I've run through the plan a thousand times. Maybe two thousand. Lorenzo's ambush at the warehouse—predictable, ambitious, exactly what a man drunk on his own cleverness would orchestrate.
My men already positioned, loyal soldiers who'll retreat through the west exit thirty seconds before everything goes up. The explosives are rigged to bury evidence and enemies alike. Bodies sourced from the morgue, unclaimed dead matching our builds.
Poor bastardi never imagined they'd star in my death-faking production.
The coroner's been compensated generously for his flexible understanding of dental records. When the smoke clears, they'll find two bodies. Don Falcone and his woman, casualties of Lorenzo's coup gone catastrophically wrong.
Everything accounted for. Everything planned down to the second. Everything except the thirty ways this could go wrong that I've catalogued at three AM.
Fire spreads faster than calculated. Exit blocked. Explosives detonate early. Marco's timing is off by three seconds—all it takes. Valentina panics and runs toward the warehouse instead of away because love makes people do spectacularly stupid things.
Merda. I'm going to give myself an ulcer before I even reach the warehouse.
I slip out of bed, watching Valentina shift but not wake. She's exhausted—hasn't slept properly in days. The guilt sits heavy, that familiar weight since I bought her at that auction. Since I dragged her back into this world she'd spent five years trying to forget.
I pull on clothes in the dark, muscle memory guiding movements I've made a thousand times. Except usually I'm not preparing to walk into an ambush on purpose. Usually I'm the one setting traps, not springing them intentionally like some suicidal idiota with a death wish and an overly complicated exit strategy.
The kitchen is dark when I enter. Marco is already there, tension radiating off him. He's made coffee—strong enough to strip paint.
"Capo." He hands me a cup. "Everything's ready."
"Timeline?"
"Thirty seconds from detonation to clear exit." His voice is steady but his knuckles are white. "I've walked it seventeen times. Cleared the route, marked obstacles, timed it down to the second."
"And you're certain?"
"As certain as I can be when we're literally blowing up a warehouse with us theoretically inside it." He sets his cup down. "The charges are positioned to channel the blast away from the back exit. Your men know to retreat at the signal. Lorenzo's people will be in the kill zone."
"How many casualties on his side?"
"Eight to twelve, based on his usual security." Marco's jaw tightens. "Could be more if he brings extra muscle."
I nod, filing the information away. The guilt will come eventually. But right now, survival takes priority.
Footsteps in the doorway make us turn. Valentina stands there, pale but steady, wearing jeans and a dark shirt. She's holding a letter—white envelope, Rosa's name in careful script.
My chest tightens because I know what it says. Goodbye. I love you. I'm sorry.
"You won't need that, bella." I want to tell her we're going to make it out, that thirty seconds is plenty, that nothing will go wrong. But the words stick because I'm not that good a liar. Not to her.
"Just in case," she says quietly. "Marco has instructions to deliver it if—"
"Nothing's going to happen." I cross to her, taking her face in my hands. Her skin is cool, pulse racing. "You hear me? I walk into that warehouse, I spring Lorenzo's trap, everything blows, and I walk out the back while he burns. Clean. Simple. Exactly as planned."
"You don't know that." Her voice is steady but her eyes betray her—dark with fear. "Cazzo, Dante, you can't guarantee—"
"I can." I kiss her forehead. "Because the alternative is unacceptable. Losing you is not an option. So we make it out. Both of us. Together."
She nods, fingers fisting in my shirt. Marco studies his coffee.
"You stay with Marco," I say into her hair. "Three blocks from the warehouse. Clear sightline to the back exit. The second you see me emerge, you drive. Don't wait, don't hesitate. Just go."
"What if you don't come out?"
The question I've been avoiding. I pull back to look at her.
"Then Marco gets you out of the city." My voice is flat, controlled. "Everything you need is already arranged. New identity, money, documentation."
"That's not—"
"Stay with him, Valentina." I cut her off. "Watch, wait, and when I come out that back door—because I will—you drive. Capisce?"
She nods, swallowing hard. I kiss her one more time—soft, careful. When I pull back, her eyes are wet but determined.
Brava ragazza. That's my girl.
Marco hands me my jacket, expression carefully neutral. We've discussed the contingencies. He knows what to do if everything goes to hell.
"It's time," Marco says quietly.
I nod, shrugging into my jacket. Valentina watches with eyes that say she wants to argue, to demand I stay. But she doesn't. Just stands there holding her letter and looking at me like she's trying to memorize my face.
I've spent my whole life being the one who acts, not the one who waits. The one who walks into rooms and makes decisions, who solves problems through strategy and violence.
Today I walk into a trap on purpose. Into Lorenzo's ambush knowing exactly what's waiting—guns, explosives, men who want me dead. I'm betting everything that I'm smarter, faster, more prepared than the ambitious bastardo who thinks he's finally cornered the fox.
I'm betting that thirty seconds is enough time. That the explosives will detonate on schedule. That my men will retreat. That the bodies will burn thoroughly. That Marco will get Valentina out if something goes wrong.
That I'm clever enough to cheat death one more time.
Cazzo. I really hope I'm right about this.
Because if I'm not, Valentina gets to watch me burn. And Lorenzo wins. And everything I've built, everything I've sacrificed, every person I've destroyed—all of it becomes meaningless.
I head for the door, shoulders straight, expression controlled. Don Falcone walking to his execution like it's just another business meeting.
Behind me, Valentina whispers something. I don't catch the words, but I know what they are.
Ti amo.
I don't turn around. Can't. Because if I look at her now, I'll lose my nerve. I'll grab her and run, abandon everything.
So I just keep walking. Out the door, toward the car, toward the warehouse where Lorenzo is waiting with guns and ambition and no idea that I've rigged his coup to blow up in his face.
Literally.
Andiamo. Let's see if I'm as smart as I think I am.
Or if today's the day arrogance finally gets me killed.