The armored SUV moved through the rain-slick streets of Brussels. It was a silent, black shape gliding through a quiet city. The chaos of the cathedral, the gunfire, the smell of gunpowder faded into a distant echo. Inside, the only sounds were the rhythmic thwack of the windshield wipers and Dante's steady voice on his comms.
I was in his arms, pressed against his chest. He held me tightly, afraid I might slip away. The adrenaline that had fueled my escape was fading. It left behind a deep exhaustion that chilled me to the bone. I trembled from the cold, the fear, and an overwhelming sense of relief. One hand was firmly on my back, his other hand pressed a secure phone to his ear.
"Elias, I want Marchand secured at the Zurich estate. He's our guest, not our prisoner. He deserves every comfort and protection," Dante commanded, his voice low and cold, resonating in my chest. "Nyx, you and Rook are on the jet with Leo. The medical team will meet you at the tower. I want a full debrief from both of you before the anesthesia hits."
He was the general once more, moving his pieces, cleaning up the scene, and controlling everything around us. He hadn't just saved us; he was erasing our traces from the city.
I looked at the man holding me. Just an hour ago, I had heard him calling my name in sheer terror. The ruthless commander and the frightened man were at odds within him. The only thing keeping them in balance was the simple act of holding me close.
On the seat across from us, shielded by a guard, sat the ledger. Wrapped in a waterproof evidence bag, it was a dark shape that absorbed the light in the cabin. It was the source of all this—the blood, the fear, the chase. It held the truth, and I had never feared anything more in my life.
When we reached the penthouse, the atmosphere buzzed with quiet urgency. The private elevator opened to a scene of tense preparation. Aria stood there, her face pale, fingers entwined nervously. When she saw me—covered in mud, blood, and grime, cradled in her brother's arms—she gasped and rushed forward.
"Bella!" she cried.
Dante gently set me down, his hand still at the small of my back, as if I might fall apart. Aria enveloped me in a fierce hug. "I heard... there was gunfire... I thought..."
"I'm okay," I whispered, my voice cracking as I clung to her. "I'm okay. We're all okay."
Behind us, Leo and the man I now knew as Rook were brought in on medical gurneys. Medics were already tending to them, their faces pale but composed. Nyx, looking worn but triumphant, gave me a quick, private nod of victory.
"Get her to the medical wing," Dante ordered the nearby staff. "A full check-up. Now."
He was trying to reclassify me as a 'patient,' someone vulnerable he could control. But I wasn't that person anymore.
"No," I said, my voice quiet but resolute.
Dante, turning to follow the medical team, froze. He turned back, his expression stormy. "That was not a request."
"I'm not going to be checked," I said, pulling away from Aria's embrace and standing on shaky feet. "Not yet. I'm tired, I'm dirty, and I'm sore, but I'm not injured. That," I pointed to the guard with the leather-bound book, "is the injury. And we're going to look at it. Now."
The challenge hung between us. It wasn't defiance; it was a fact. I was no longer a civilian under his watch. I was a key player in this conflict. His equal.
His green eyes, which had been frantic and then cold, now showed a familiar, reluctant respect. He gave a single, sharp nod. "To the war room. All of us."
Ten minutes later, I was cleaned up and in a fresh robe. The sapphire necklace remained a heavy, comforting weight around my neck. I stepped into the war room with Elias, Nyx, Aria, and Dante. The inner circle. The ledger sat in the center of the large conference table, a dark, silent presence.
Dante looked at me, a silent question in his eyes. He hadn't forgotten my earlier question. How could a man who claims to be righteous sell weapons to criminals? This book held the answer. It could be the cure for the manifest's poison, or it might be the final blow to his father's memory.
"We do this together," I said softly, moving to his side and placing my hand on the cold, old leather cover.
His hand covered mine, fingers intertwining, grounding us both. Together, we opened the Devil's Ledger.
The pages were not filled with simple numbers. Instead, they contained handwritten entries in a precise, elegant script—Jacques Dubois's style. It was a detailed record of nineteen years of evil.
I scanned the first page, which was not a list of transactions, but a table of contents, a list of conspiracies.
The Marseille Accord (J. Dubois)
The London Edict (M. Valerius)
The Ankara Annex (K. Osman)
The Vatican Betrayal
The Curator's Collection
It was a roadmap of the Syndicate's worst deeds, a history of broken families and stolen lives. My fingers shook as I turned the page to the very first entry. The one that had sparked everything. The one that had shaped our lives.
The title of the chapter, written in the same precise hand, hit me like a physical blow. It wasn't "The Moretti Murder." It wasn't "The Valerius Betrayal."
It was: "The Antonio Moretti Gambit."
I stared at the word, my mind racing. A gambit. A strategy. A calculated risk.
"What does that mean?" Aria whispered, her voice shaking. "What is a gambit?"
Dante was as pale as death. He looked at the words, and his entire world—the one built on the tragic story of his father's murder—shifted. He raised his eyes to mine, his expression shattered, confused, and terrified.
"It means," he whispered, his voice raw and broken, "that my father wasn't a victim. He was a player."