Page 37 of Code Name: Dante

“I wonder if that nice young man, Tank, would drive me into town.” She picked up her knife again. “Though I suppose that’s not safe either, is it? Nothing is anymore. All because—” She stopped abruptly.

“Because of what?” I asked.

She shook her head and resumed chopping, humming under her breath like she always did when she was preparing food. The sound followed me as I left the kitchen.

Upstairs, I found Alice already at work on her laptop, tea at her elbow. “Any luck getting back into those records?”

“Not yet.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m still bothered by the property transfers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Each sale looped back to the same shell companies. Like the deed was transferred, then transferred back again. It makes no sense. I mean, it seems like someone went to a lot of trouble to hide who really owns the property, but it was sloppy. All it would’ve taken?—”

Raised voices outside interrupted her. Through the windows, I saw Tank and Grit conferring with Alessandro near the boat dock. All three men looked angry. The morning mist still clung to the water, making the scene seem surreal.

Alessandro said something that made Tank nod sharply before heading toward the boathouse. Even from this distance, I could read the tension in Alessandro’s stance. Whatever they’d found had him worried.

Less than a couple of minutes later, the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs made us both raise our heads. Alessandro approached Alice’s workspace, his expression neutral in a way I was learning meant he was anything but calm.

“What did they find?” I asked.

“Evidence that someone was watching the house last night. Professional setup—long-range surveillance equipment, multiple positions.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They’re not just trying to scare us anymore. They’re gathering intelligence.”

A chill ran down my spine despite the morning warmth. Somewhere out there, hidden in the mist, someone was collecting information about our movements, our patterns, our vulnerabilities. The same question came to mind every time. Why?

13

DANTE

Ispent the majority of the night coordinating increased security after the boats were spotted on the lake. By dawn, we had thermal-imaging cameras installed and additional teams patrolling the water. But watching the sun rise over Canada Lake, I knew it wasn’t enough. We needed more than just defensive measures.

Which was why, two hours later, I found myself in the camp’s basement, now converted into a makeshift training room. Exercise mats covered the floor, and morning light streaming through the high windows cast long shadows across the space. Lark had agreed to the self-defense lessons without hesitation when I made the suggestion earlier—something that both impressed and worried me.

I watched her move through the basic positions I’d shown her, noting how quickly she picked up the techniques despite, by her own admission, being new to this.

“Good,” I said as she executed a perfect escape from a wrist grab. “Now faster.”

She repeated the movement, adding the strike we’d practiced a couple of times. Her determination was evident in every line of her body, how she pushed through her fatigue to get each move right. When she’d first agreed to this, I worried she was doing it just to humor me. Now, I saw the same steel in her that I’d glimpsed that first day at Method Tea and Coffee.

“Again,” I instructed, moving to demonstrate the next sequence. My knee twinged—an old reminder that even the best-laid plans could go sideways. I tried to hide the slight limp, but Lark’s observant gaze caught it anyway.

“You’re in pain,” she said, lowering her hands. “We should take a break.”

“I’m fine.” But I didn’t resist when she led me to one of the folding chairs we’d brought down earlier. Truth was, the old injury had been acting up more lately, probably from stress, lack of rest, and constant vigilance.

“What happened?” she asked softly, pulling another chair close. “To your knee?”

I hesitated. Most of what occurred in my past was more gruesome than Lark could even imagine, but something in her expression made me want to share this piece of my history. “Meetup gone wrong,” I finally said.

“What does that mean?”

I leaned back, remembering that night. “I was caught in the crossfire when DOJ agents were escorting a witness—someone who had evidence about judicial corruption. I never should’ve been there that night, and it was the closest I came to blowing my cover.” I could still smell the rain on the pavement and hear the screech of tires.

Her hand found mine, warm and steady. “What happened?”

“Ambush. Three cars, professional hit team.” I squeezed her fingers gently. “A bullet hit me while I was trying to make it look like I was there to take out the witness the same way they were. Shattered my kneecap.”

“Oh my God.”

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