The phone rang at three in the morning.
Dante sat in his hotel room, staring at the flower of belladonna on the desk, when the ring sliced through the silence like shattering glass. He knew who was calling before he picked up. Knew what awaited him on the other line.
But he picked it up anyway.
"Father," he said, keeping his voice even despite what he'd just done.
The quiet on the other end of the line was more terrifying than any threat. Dante could hear his father's breathing—labored, slow, like the stalking of prey.
"You failed," the Don finally said, his voice gravel coated in velvet. "You failed me. You failed the family. You failed at everything you were taught to be."
Dante closed his eyes, the belladonna flower absorbing the faint light from the street outside.
"I couldn't kill him," he breathed. "He's innocent."
"Giovanni Moretti is a traitor," the Don cursed. "He betrayed his blood. He left us to the wolves. He deserves to die."
"Deserves?" Dante opened his eyes, looking at the flower. "What did he do that deserves death? He opted for peace, not violence. He protected his daughter from the shadows. That's not a crime."
The silence it invoked was so absolute that Dante could hear the thud of his own heart.
"You've changed," said the Don, his voice softer now, but no less threatening. "What did you do in London?"
Dante's thoughts went back to Fianna—her smile, her voice, the way she regarded him as if she could see to the very center of his being.
"I met someone," he replied quietly.
"Who?"
"A woman. An artist. She's. she's everything I never knew I wanted."
The Don's laughter was cold and hollow. "In love with a woman you barely know? This is what you've become? A lovesick fool?"
"She's Giovanni's daughter," Dante said, and the words echoed in the air like a death sentence.
The following silence was absolute.
"Fianna," the Don said finally. "You've fallen in love with Fianna Moretti."
It was not a question. Dante did not answer.
"You see what this is," the Don continued. "She's your cousin. Your blood. This is against the laws. Against the traditions."
"I know."
"And yet you like her better than your family. Than all that you were brought up with."
Dante looked at the flower of belladonna, the purple petals glinting in the moonlight.
"I like love better than hate," he said. "I like life more than death. I like to be the man she thinks she's looking at when she looks at me."
The Don's voice was barely a whisper now, but it was dense with centuries of blood and treachery.
"You will return to Naples," he said. "You will atone for your treachery. And then you will make your choice—your family or this girl."
"I've already made my choice," Dante had replied.
"Then you've made your demise," the Don snarled back, and the line went dead.
Dante sat there in the darkness, his ear still pressed into the phone, hearing the silence following his father's threat. He knew what was unavoidable. Knew that his choice had consequences that would plague both their existence.
But he also knew he could not turn back. Could not be the man he'd once been, pre-Fianna. Could not exist in a world where love was weakness and mercy was a fault.
He held the belladonna flower, its stem cold in his palm. Eleanor's words returned to him: "Love is like the belladonna. Beautiful and dangerous."
And he was ready to confront the danger.
The next morning, Dante walked the streets of London with the weight of his father's threat and the memory of Fianna's smile. He knew he had to get out. Had to disappear before his father's thugs arrived. Had to rescue Fianna from the darkness closing in.
But he couldn't. Not yet. Not when he had promised to meet her for coffee. Not when he had discovered something worth fighting for.
The café was small and quiet, hidden away in a corner of Bloomsbury. He spotted her already there, sitting by the window with a book spread out on the table in front of her. She looked up as he entered, and her smile illuminated the space like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"Dante," she said, standing to greet him.
"Fianna," he said, and her name was poetry spoken.
They sat talking, talking about art and life and what morning light meant on water. For one hour, Dante forgot he was in trouble with his father, forgot that there was blood on his hands, forgot that anything mattered outside of the woman sitting across from him.
But then his phone rang.
A message from the Don: "They're coming for you."
Dante's gaze leaped up from his coffee, his heart racing. He knew what this was. His father had sent his men to London. To bring him home. To force him to make a decision.
"Is something wrong?" Fianna asked, her voice laced with concern.
Dante forced a smile, attempting to make it seem okay."Just work-related stuff," he replied.
But he could already sense the doubt in her eyes. She was too clever, too attuned to the shadows that he carried.
"Dante," she breathed. "If something's bothering you, you can tell me."
He caught her eye—actually caught her eye—and saw the trust in it. The belief that he was a good man. The love that was already starting to develop between them.
"I have to leave," he said finally. "There are matters I need to attend to."
"Will I ever see you again?" she asked, and he could hear the fear in her voice.
"I hope so," he replied, and it was true.
He got up, leaning down to kiss her cheek. She was warm and soft, and he didn't want to go at all, to smell the scent of her hair, to feel the warmth of her body.
But he couldn't.
"Be careful," she said, as he retreated.
"You too," he replied, and then left the café.
On the streets outside, the afternoon traffic was jammed. Dante walked quickly, his mind reeling with schemes and options. He knew his father's guards would be there any moment. Knew that he had a choice to make.
But he also knew that he could not leave Fianna open to harm. Could not let the shadows which had shaped his life touch the woman he loved.
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number he had hoped never to dial.
"Giovanni Moretti," a voice answered.
"Mr. Moretti," Dante said. "This is Dante Valerio Inferni. We need to talk."
The silence that followed was heavy and long.
"I know who you are," Giovanni said at last. "I know what you were in London to do."
"I didn't do it," Dante said. "I couldn't."
"Why?"
"Because I love your daughter."
The silence built on for what felt like an eternity.
"Meet me at the British Museum," Giovanni finally commanded. "One hour."
Dante hung up the receiver and looked down at the belladonna flower in his pocket. He knew what he was doing would change everything. Knew that by calling Giovanni, he was choosing Fianna over his family, love over duty, life over death.
But he also knew that it was the only decision he could make.
The mission had been a failure. But in failing, he'd found something more precious than any mission ever could.
He'd found love.
And he was willing to fight for it.