Page 25 of Code Name: Dante

Be safe,I wrote back. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I added,I wish you were here,even though he’d said it earlier. This time, I wanted to say it first.

The response took longer this time.So do I. More than you know.

I tucked the phone away, knowing that whatever happened tomorrow—in a Manhattan courtroom or a Gloversville coffee shop—we’d face it stronger, knowing reassurance was always on the other end of a text.

The metal box still sat open on the table. Inside sat generations of my family’s history, preserved by time, luck, and one man’s determination to protect what mattered to me.

Maybe that was the real legacy worth preserving—not just the physical artifacts, but the spirit of resilience they represented. The ability to rebuild, to find hope in unexpected places. Or unexpected people.

As if reading my thoughts, Tank appeared. “Perimeter’s secure, Miss Gregory. I’m calling it a night. You should too.”

I nodded, gathering the photos. Tomorrow would come soon enough, but tonight, in this peaceful moment between what was lost and what might be found, I allowed myself to feel something dangerously close to hope.

9

DANTE

The Manhattan courtroom felt smaller than I remembered, its wood paneling and stark fluorescent lights a far cry from the peaceful sanctuary of Canada Lake. My hands rested on the polished surface of the table where I sat with the prosecution, waiting for the proceedings to begin. The familiar weight of my shoulder holster was absent—no weapons allowed in court—making me feel oddly vulnerable.

I’d spent the sleepless night before in my hotel room, reviewing my testimony, but my thoughts kept drifting to Lark and how the moonlight had caught her hair as she’d kissed my cheek. The gentle press of her body against mine when I’d pulled her from the flooded basement.

Then memories of another time had intruded—Vincent teaching me to shoot, drilling into me that sentiment was weakness. That caring about someone meant giving them power over you.

Tank had texted before I arrived at the courthouse, saying that Lark and her grandmother had made it safely to the coffee shop, protected by a full security detail. Still, being here instead of there felt wrong. The message included a photo of the security setup—carefully positioned vehicles, sight lines covered. It was good work, professional. But it wasn’t me there, watching over them.

“All rise.” The bailiff’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “This Court, with the Honorable Judge Paul Hellerstein presiding, is now in session. Please be seated and come to order.”

Vincent entered in an orange jumpsuit, hands cuffed in front of him, the shackles on his legs making it hard for him to walk with his usual confident gait. My brother had always understood the power of appearances. Even now, headed for what would likely be a life sentence, he carried himself like a CEO rather than a criminal defendant. His dark eyes, so like my own, met mine with cold amusement.

“Good to see you, little brother.” His voice was pitched low, meant only for me, as he passed. “Heard you’ve been spending time in Gloversville. Interesting choice.”

My jaw clenched. The casual mention of the town confirmed my fears—somehow, people still managed to report to him, meaning he could also issue commands. The fucker. I thought of Lark’s prideful courage yesterday, of her fierce determination to keep her shop open despite the threats. Vincent had always been good at identifying leverage points.

Before I could respond, Marco Romano—one of the best criminal defense attorneys money could buy—touched his arm, guiding him to their table. I recognized the lawyer’s type from countless “business meetings” where Vincent had entertained men like him, along with judges and politicians. All perfectly groomed, perfectly corrupt.

I watched as both men took their seats, waiting for the moment Vincent realized the original judge in the case wasn’t the one sitting on the bench. Nathan Vargas had been replaced an hour before the trial began when the prosecutor, Rachel McKinney, made a motion to have him removed based on evidence proving he’d been paid off by none other than my brother.

Like me, she was anticipating Vincent’s reaction. When he turned to Romano and whispered something, the prosecutor approached the podium with the measured confidence of someone who’d never lost a major case. Her tailored charcoal suit and silver hair that was pulled back in a no-nonsense bun spoke of decades in courtrooms, while the sharp intelligence in her green eyes reminded me of the few people who’d ever seen through Vincent’s facade. We’d spent months preparing for this moment, reviewing evidence, and rehearsing questions. But nothing could have prepared me for the weight of Vincent’s stare as I was sworn in.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Alessandro Bianchi Castellano.”

“And your relationship to the defendant?”

“He’s my brother.”

A memory of Vincent teaching me to tie a tie before my first communion flashed in my mind. “Family is everything,” he’d said. “Remember that, Alessandro.” The same words he’d use years later to justify murder, extortion, and corruption.

“Mr. Castellano, can you tell the court about your role in your family’s organization?” McKinney continued, her voice carrying the quiet authority that had made her legendary in federal prosecution circles.

I leaned forward slightly, keeping my voice steady. “Officially, I served as enforcer and chief of security. In reality, I was working undercover for the Department of Justice to expose corruption and illegal activities.”

“How long did you maintain this cover?”

“Seven years, four months, and thirteen days.”

Vincent’s laugh was barely audible, but I caught it. The same dismissive sound he’d made when I asked about our mother’s whereabouts. The memory strengthened my resolve. For years, I’d watched him destroy lives, telling myself I had to maintain my cover, had to see the bigger picture. But with each passing day, the cost had grown.

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