The rain returned with a vengeance, coating London's streets with mirrors of water that duplicated the grey above.
Dante hunched over in a rented office block by King's Cross, the surveillance equipment and papers surrounding him documenting the tale of Giovanni Moretti's London life of quietude. The mission had been simple: accumulate information, construct patterns, discover the perfect moment to strike.
Nothing about this was simple anymore.
He had watched Giovanni's routine for the past three days. The guy was a creature of habit—morning walks in the park, every-day coffee at the same coffee shop, Wednesday morning visits to the local library. He lived in a small flat in Kensington, worked as a small business consultant, and had no discernible connection to his criminal past.
Giovanni Moretti was, by all accounts, a good bloke.
Dante rubbed his temples, focusing on what he needed to do. The Don was a man who saw results. But every time he pictured himself pulling the trigger, Fianna's face had floated to the forefront. How she'd looked at him from across the street. How her eyes had seemed to cut to his soul.
He opened the file again. Giovanni's finances showed a modest but secure life. No hidden accounts, no iffy transactions, no underworld associations. The man had indeed left that all behind.
Not that the Don cared about redemption, though. He cared about revenge.
Dante's phone buzzed. A text from his father.
"Status report."
He stared at the message for a long time before answering: "Target located. Building patterns."
The answer was immediate: "Good. Remember why you're there."
Dante knew precisely why he was there. To end the life of a man who had done nothing wrong other than take a different course. To demonstrate his loyalty to a family that placed more stock in blood than in humanity.
He closed the file and rose to his feet, going to the window. The rain had drawn the city a pale grey and dark. In it somewhere, Fianna was having her day. Painting, probably. Or teaching. Having the life her father had protected for her.
The thought tightened his chest.
He had learned to compartmentalize. To separate emotion from action. But this was not that. This was not about eliminating a threat, protecting turf. This was about killing an innocent man for his father's ego.
Dante pulled out the pictures once more. The picture of the beach showed Fianna as completely happy, unaware of what darkness would ever cross her path. The newer picture showed her and her father together, safe and happy.
What would happen to her if he were to slay Giovanni? Would she ever get the truth? Would she spend the rest of her life wondering why someone had taken her father away from her?
The phone buzzed again. Another text from the Don.
"Time is money, son. Don't let sentiment cloud your judgment."
Dante wished he could smile. Sentiment. Like it was some kind of failing to care about the lives he was going to destroy. Like being human was a failure.
He typed: "Understood."
But he didn't understand. Not anymore.
The rain continued to fall, and Dante watched people hurrying down the streets below him, umbrellas floating like black flowers. Normal people, with normal lives. People who would never know what it meant to have blood on their hands.
He remembered Giovanni feeding ducks in the park. Remembered how the man had assisted that old woman with her groceries. Remembered the tranquility in his eyes when he sat reading his newspaper.
Dante had learned that peace was weakness. That kindness was a weakness. That in order to make it through, one had to be tougher than the world itself.
But what if that was incorrect. What if the real strength was choosing to be good, even when the world wasn't.
His phone buzzed once more. The Don was running out of patience.
"Report tomorrow. Don't make me regret it."
Dante stared at the message, then the photographs lay spread out on his desk. Fianna's face stared back at him, challenging things he couldn't answer.
What would she have said to him if she had any idea what he had intended? Would she call him a monster? A man who could possibly kill an innocent man just because his father told him to?
Rain came down harder now, pounding against the window in pulsing time. Dante lingered there for a long time, watching the city dissolve and vanish behind rain-speckled glass.
Tomorrow, he would have to make the choice. Tomorrow, he would either pledge his allegiance to the family or betray all he had learned.
Tonight, however, he would permit himself to wonder what it might be like to be the kind of man who could stand in front of Fianna without shame.
The photos lit up in the dim light, and something within Dante shifted. Something lovely and frightening and fatal all at once.
He was understanding, seeing now, why his father had warned him to be careful of feeling.
Because once you started caring, you could never stop.