Page 48 of Into the Fire

“Father,” I whispered, my guts doing somersaults. It was him. Without a doubt, it was him. I wasn’t sure why I knew it so much in that moment. Maybe it was being face-to-face with him, but I remembered.

I remembered a blur of his face. Younger. Youthful. But definitely him.

Now, he was in his early to mid-forties. Still youthful, but with an air of authority and power washing over him.

“Alessandro,” he said, his voice trembling.

I stood rooted in my spot as he came to me, arms open. When he wrapped me in a tight hug, I hugged him back and held on, my throat tight and my eyes burning with unshed tears.

“My boy,” he whispered. “My son.” He pulled away and stared into my eyes. “How I’ve missed you.”

“Father,” I choked out again. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” he murmured, cradling my face. “I have searched so long for you, and you have been right beneath my nose. How is your brother?”

“H-he’s good. Trent,” I said.

“Tomasso,” he corrected, releasing my face. “Tomasso and Gianna, my princess.”

“She’s dead,” I whispered.

His smile faltered and his eyes glimmered with tears. “I know. With your mother.”

I nodded, my throat still tight.

“Where have you hidden for so many years? Right here in the city?”

“Yes. I-I did street work to get by. To provide for Trent—Tomasso—best I could. We lived on the streets for a long time until I was able to get enough money for a studio on Danvers.”

“In the Underground,” he said, his voice soft. “You went Underground.”

I nodded. “I had no choice. I didn’t know who you were to come to you.”

“And how did you find out?”

I swallowed. “Lorenzo DeLuca, Drake Petrov, and Everett Church.”

Matteo narrowed his eyes. “A horseman. A lord. And a snake.”

“Yes.”

He backed away from me and nodded to Alessio. I hadn’t even realized he was still in the room.

The door clicked closed a moment later, leaving me with Matteo.

“Matteo—”

“Father,” he corrected me, looking up as he poured us each a glass of whiskey from his bar. “Or papà. I suppose now you’re a bit too old for that one.” He gave me a sad smile.

“Father,” I said softly. “Papà. I come to you now not only to know you but for your help.” I took the drink he offered me and sat on the leather couch near the fireplace. He sat across from me in a chair, his eyes on my every movement.

“Chi dobbiamo uccidere?”he asked.

I was fluent in Italian. My mother had spoken it often and had told me my father had taught her. All the pieces were coming together and making sense now.

Who do we need to kill?

“I’m not sure. I’ve fallen in-into. . .” my voice trailed off as I thought about Rosalie.

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