Chapter 6 - The Betrayal at Sea
The cold Aegean wind whipped across the silent deck.
Dante stood perfectly still, his dark eyes locked on the traitor. He didn't lower his weapon.
“You’re making a mistake, Kostas,” Dante said, his voice dangerously calm. “Vincenzo leaves no loose ends. The moment you hand us over, he’ll put a bullet in your head to save the payout.”
Kostas laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “I’ll take my chances. Now, drop the gun, or I start shooting through the deck into the cabin. I wonder if I’ll hit the girl?”
In the cabin below, Emily held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked around the luxurious space. There were no weapons. Just crystal glasses and expensive whiskey.
She looked at the heavy, silver pocket watch clutched in her hand.
If they get the watch, they kill my mother.
She couldn't let Dante surrender.
Emily grabbed the heavy crystal decanter from the table. She crept to the bottom of the wooden stairs, staying just out of sight.
Above her, Dante slowly lowered his gun, raising his left hand in surrender.
“Fine,” Dante said. “But the girl stays below. I have the watch.”
“Throw the gun over,” Kostas ordered.
Dante tossed his pistol. It splashed heavily into the black water.
Kostas stepped forward, lowering the rifle slightly to reach out for the watch.
It was the only opening they had.
Emily didn't think. She surged up the stairs with a feral scream, hurling the heavy crystal whiskey decanter directly at the captain’s head.
Kostas flinched, raising his arm to block the flying glass. The decanter shattered against his forearm, showering the deck in alcohol and crystal shards.
The distraction lasted half a second, but for Dante Moretti, a half-second was a lifetime.
Dante lunged.
He closed the distance instantly, grabbing the barrel of the tactical rifle and wrenching it upward. The gun discharged wildly into the night sky.
Dante drove his knee viciously into Kostas’s stomach, dropping the massive man to the deck.
But Kostas was a brawler. He roared, pulling a jagged combat knife from his belt and swinging wildly.
The blade caught Dante across the bicep, slicing through his black suit jacket. Blood instantly blossomed across the fabric.
“Dante!” Emily screamed.
Dante ignored the pain. He stepped inside the captain’s guard, trapped the arm holding the knife, and delivered a brutal, precise strike to Kostas’s throat.
The captain collapsed, gasping for air, the knife clattering to the wooden deck.
Dante kicked the knife over the edge, breathing heavily, clutching his bleeding arm.
Emily rushed forward, ripping her apron off and pressing it hard against Dante’s wound.
“You’re bleeding,” she panicked, her hands stained with his blood.
“I’m fine,” Dante grunted, wincing as she applied pressure. He looked down at her, his dark eyes intense, burning with a fierce, possessive adrenaline. “You saved my life.”
“You saved mine first,” she whispered, holding his gaze. The space between them felt suddenly electric, charged with the profound intimacy of survival.
Dante reached up with his good hand, gently cupping the back of her neck, pulling her forehead against his chest. For a fleeting second, the ruthless mafia boss simply held her, anchoring himself in her warmth.
But the moment shattered as a loud, crackling sound erupted from Kostas’s body on the deck.
It was a two-way radio clipped to the traitor’s belt.
“Kostas. Status report,” a harsh, metallic voice barked in Italian.
Dante pulled away, his expression hardening back into stone. He knelt beside the unconscious captain and ripped the radio from his belt.
As he did, the captain’s shirt rode up, exposing his lower back.
Emily gasped.
Tattooed across the captain’s skin was a crude, faded image of a black serpent eating its own tail.
Emily stumbled backward, the blood draining from her face.
“I know that tattoo,” Emily whispered, genuine terror lacing her voice. “When I was ten years old, men came to our house in Ohio to shake down my mother for money. They had that exact same tattoo on their wrists.”
Dante stared at the ink, his jaw clenching so tight the muscle feathered.
“The Ouroboros,” Dante said grimly. “It’s the insignia of Vincenzo’s elite enforcers.”
He reached into the captain’s jacket pocket and pulled out a small, locked waterproof briefcase.
Dante smashed the lock with the butt of the discarded rifle. He pried the case open.
Inside wasn't money. It wasn't weapons.
It was a stack of surveillance photos. Hundreds of them.
Photos of Emily graduating high school. Photos of her working at a diner in college. Photos of her boarding the plane to Santorini three months ago.
And tucked beneath the photos, perfectly preserved in a plastic sleeve, was a child’s drawing.
Emily reached for it with trembling hands.
It was a drawing of a house with a yellow sun, drawn in crayon. In the corner, written in clumsy, six-year-old handwriting, was the name Emily Hart.
“This was on my refrigerator in Ohio,” Emily sobbed, the violation of her entire life crashing down on her. “They’ve been watching me my whole life.”
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Dante stepped forward, pulling her against him, shielding her from the horrifying evidence.
“They watched you because Vincenzo knew your father had hidden the ledger,” Dante vowed, his voice a lethal promise into her hair. “But they will never watch you again. We are going to Athens. And we are going to burn Vincenzo’s empire to the ground.”
