Page 14 of The Capo & the Curator

He arches an imperious brow, as if questioning my comprehension. "Mr. Romano is no longer in need of your assistance. You're to collect your things and return to your normal life."

The dismissal lances straight through me with all the force of a serrated blade. Dante is done with me. I’ve been used up and cast aside like some disposable pawn in his grand game.

Hot, stinging tears prick at the corners of my eyes as the hurt blazes to life, quickly smothered beneath an inferno of white-hot anger. How dare he? After everything we've been through, every step of this twisted journey we've walked together, he has the audacity to simply discard me without a second thought? But what can I do?

In this world, I'm utterly powerless.

The anger drains out of me in a raging torrent, leaving me hollow.

"A car is waiting to take you wherever you need to go." Aldo's words slice through the roaring silence.

I nod numbly, the fight utterly drained out of me. There's no point in chasing after Dante, in demanding answers or begging for closure. He's made his stance abundantly clear through his actions, callous and uncompromising as they may be.

With leaden steps, I trail after Aldo toward the idling town car, sliding into the plush leather interior without a word. It isn't until the heavy door thunks shut, cocooning me in the vehicle's stifling silence, that the first rogue tear streaks a glistening path down my cheek.

The driver glances back at me expectantly. "Where to, miss?"

The question hangs heavy in the stillness as I cast one last look at the imposing facade of the Romano estate. At the man who had stormed back into its depths without so much as a backward glance.

I need the safe haven of familiarity now, a sanctuary far removed from the chaos and peril that have turned my life utterly upside down.

"The library," I murmur at last. "Take me to the Arcadia Historical Library."

There, surrounded by the dusty tomes and quiet stillness that have ever been my solace, I can begin the long journey of piecing myself back together.

Chapter 9

Dante

The musty silence of my grandfather's old family estate is suffocating, the weight of decades pressing in all around me as I navigate the labyrinthine corridors. My footsteps echo hollowly off the cracked marble floors, muffled only by the occasional crunch of debris underfoot.

This place was once the crown jewel of the Romano legacy. Having been abandoned long ago, when our family relocated to the heart of Arcadia, it now sits in silent ruin.

I try to imagine my grandfather as a boy running through these halls. The same stoic man who dedicated his life to upholding the Romano legacy, shaping our criminal enterprise into an underworld dynasty to be feared and respected.

And I'd been content to walk the path he'd carved out for me without question, my sole driving purpose to honor the heavy mantle of leadership he'd entrusted to me upon his death. That blind devotion had kept me centered and uncompromising in my convictions.

But now... now, everything's shifted on its axis.

Evelyn's absence feels like a yawning chasm in my chest, one I can't quite seem to fill, no matter how deeply I try to bury the ache. It had been so much simpler to cut ties with her—to revert back to that cold, hardened shell I'd spent a lifetime carefully constructing.

Anything to avoid the disquieting vulnerability she'd awakened in me. The terrifying need to keep her safe at all costs, even if it meant pushing her away.

My hand clenches into a white-knuckled fist, nails biting into my palm as I force the thought away. This weakness is unacceptable. I'm the head of a powerful crime family—a position that demands strength and resolve.

Not this tangled knot of conflict and doubt that's taken root somewhere deep in my core.

I pivot sharply down the next dimly lit corridor, following the coordinates from the journal that should lead me straight to the final piece of the puzzle.

Sure enough, after several winding turns, I find a heavy oak door set into an alcove at the end of the hall, its ornately carved surface nearly obscured by a thick layer of grime. My palm presses flat against the aged wood, feeling for the telltale indentation to trigger the hidden locking mechanism.

A soft click echoes through the stillness, the door easing open on silent hinges with a puff of stale air. I slip inside the darkened chamber without hesitation, the beam from my Maglite cutting through the gloom to reveal a meticulously preserved space.

No expense was spared in outfitting this sanctum—plush oriental rugs line the floor, the walls are paneled in intricately carved walnut, and a heavy mahogany desk dominates the center of the room. It's like stepping through a portal into the past.

Squaring my shoulders, I cross the room in a few long strides and sink into the worn leather chair behind the desk. It smells of pipe smoke and aged whiskey, evoking memories of sitting on my grandfather's knee as a boy, listening in rapt awe as he spun tales of daring and conquest.

Those were simpler times, before I understood the darkness that shrouded our world.

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