Page 164 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
Marco crouches over one, checking for insignia.
His gloved fingers tug down the collar of a blood-soaked shirt. "Branded. Lower shoulder, right side."
I nod once.
"Get what you can from the bodies. Strip comms, rifles, IDs. Leave nothing behind that can crawl back to life."
Tomas wipes the side of his rifle and reloads.
His knuckles are raw.
"They were waiting for us."
"They thought they could hold this line," I say. "They were wrong."
One of the junior guards limps across the rubble with a satchel of recovered gear, his face pale but unbroken.
Marco gives the signal.
Our teams form again, slower now, but intact.
The gates to the inner structure loom ahead, cracked open but unbreached. The monastery still stands.
I glance toward the crooked bell tower. "They were never the endgame," I say.
We push into the central nave.
It is colder here in the wide hall lit by the high stained glass, most of it broken, the light fracturing across the floor.
At the far end, behind what used to be the altar, stands the Rossi butler.
He is not armed.
He is not afraid.
He stands as though he has been waiting for me since the moment he walked Gianna out of my reach.
His coat is buttoned.
His hair is combed.
There is blood on the cuff of his shirt, old enough to be dry.
"Dante," he says, like we are beginning a lesson.
"Where is she?"
"She is alive," he answers, which is not the same thing.
Marco lifts his weapon.
Renato raises a hand.
"You can shoot me now if you like. But then you will never understand what this has all been for."
"You’re stalling," I say. "And I’m out of patience."
"Then let me give you the last page before you burn the book."
