51 The sheer cruelty is hard to watch. But the vengeance is incredibly satisfying.

The basement of the Moretti mansion did not smell of damp earth or forgotten wine. It smelled of cold stone, ozone, and the metallic tang of old blood.

Two of Dante’s heavily armed guards shoved me down the stone steps, their grip on my upper arms like iron clamps. I stumbled, the soles of my cheap flats slipping on the damp masonry, but I didn't cry out. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, but I kept my chin high. When you grow up with a brother who treats debt collectors like minor inconveniences, you learn how to look brave even when your knees are shaking.

They pushed me into a small, windowless room containing nothing but a single wooden chair and a bare bulb hanging from a frayed wire. The heavy steel door slammed shut behind me, the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place echoing through the hollow room like a gunshot.

Then, silence.

I sat on the wooden chair, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to stop them from trembling. My thoughts raced. How did my grandmother know his dead wife’s lullaby?

My nonna, Maria, had been a quiet woman who grew basil in chipped coffee cans on our fire escape in Brooklyn. She never talked about her life in Sicily before she immigrated in the late seventies. She only sang that soft, haunting melody—La Stella Dorata—whenever my brother, Leo, and I were too terrified to sleep because of the shouting in the alleyways.

"Think, Elena," I whispered to myself, the sound of my own voice small and pathetic in the damp air. "There has to be a connection."

Hours bled into one another. The bare bulb flickered, casting long, monstrous shadows against the weeping concrete walls. My throat grew parched, and the phantom screams of the twins, Clara and Mia, echoed in my ears. I knew they would be waking up soon. I knew that without the darkness and the song, the terror would claw its way back into their small chests.

The heavy steel bolt finally scraped open.

Dante Moretti walked in alone. He had discarded his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal dark, intricate tattoos of thorny vines wrapping around his forearms. He carried a heavy manila folder under one arm and a glass of water in his other hand.

He placed the glass on the floor near my feet. He didn't offer me a seat, nor did he take one. He simply stood over me, his dark, hazel eyes reflecting the harsh light of the flickering bulb.

"The man in the harbor," Dante said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a shiver straight down my spine. "His name was Silvio Bianchi. A mid-level soldier for the Valenti family. They’ve been trying to reclaim our northern shipping ports for a year."

"I don't know any Bianchis," I said, my voice steady despite the dryness in my throat. "And I don't know the Valentis. I told you, I’m a waitress from the South Side. I took this job because of Leo's debt."

Dante dropped the manila folder onto my lap. It fell with a heavy, final thud.

"That folder contains the manifest of the Sardinia, a cargo ship that arrived in New York Harbor in 1978," Dante said, leaning down until his face was only inches from mine. "Among the passengers was a young woman named Maria Carlotta Valenti. Your grandmother."

The breath caught in my throat. I stared at the yellowed document visible through the clear plastic sleeve. There, in elegant, faded script, was my nonna's maiden name.

"The Valentis and the Morettis have been at war for three generations, Elena," Dante whispered, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made me want to shrink back. "The lullaby you sang to my daughters last night was written by my wife's grandmother—a Valenti. It is a song kept strictly within their inner circle. It is a song sung only to children of the bloodline."

"If my grandmother was a Valenti, she never told us," I argued, my voice rising in desperation. "She died in a state hospital three years ago. She had nothing, Dante! No money, no jewelry, nothing but an old copper pot and that song!"

"And yet, the moment you step into my house, a Valenti soldier is found dead with a map of my children's nursery in his pocket," Dante countered, his jaw clenching. "Tell me the truth, Elena. Did they send you? Did they use your brother's debt to force you into my home to open the door for them?"

"No!" I cried, standing up so fast the wooden chair scraped loudly against the floor. "I would never hurt a child! You saw them last night! They were sleeping! If I wanted to hurt them, why would I have put them to sleep?"

"Because a sleeping target is easier to carry out," Dante said coldly.

He stepped closer, his shadow completely enveloping me. But as he looked down at me, his eyes flickered. For a fraction of a second, the cold, ruthless boss of the Chicago outfit vanished, replaced by the ghost of the man who had looked at his sleeping daughters with such desperate awe the night before.

Before he could speak, the intercom on the wall buzzed sharply.

Dante reached out and pressed the receiver. "What is it?"

"Boss," his head of security, Marco, static crackling through the small speaker. "You need to get upstairs. Now. The twins... they woke up. They’re locking themselves in the wardrobe, and they won't let anyone near them. They’re calling for her."

Dante looked at me, his expression a turbulent storm of suspicion, anger, and a father's raw, bleeding fear.

"If you are playing me, Elena," he whispered, his hand grasping the heavy metal door handle, "I will make sure your brother is the least of your worries."