The British Museum loomed above him, a temple to forgotten gods.
Dante stood at the base of the stairs, observing tourists and scholars moving in and out of the massive building. He'd chosen the location for symbolism: it was a treasure vault of human history; where what once was has been preserved, and secrets were preserved safe behind glass and rock.
Secrecies similar to the ones he was about to unlock.
Belladonna's bloom smoked in his pocket as he walked up the stairs, his boots clanging off the marble. Within, the air hung thick with books and waxed wood, and the sound of footsteps tread through deserted halls as if the ghosts of the past.
He saw Giovanni in the Egyptian gallery, in front of a case filled with antiquities from the tomb of Tutankhamun. The older man was not as tall as he was in the photos, but there was an aura of stillness of quiet dignity around him that spoke volumes for the man who had overcome his demons and lived to tell the story.
"Dante," Giovanni answered, his face turning to him. His voice low, but his eyes bright and attentive. "I've been waiting for you."
Dante stood a few feet back, his eyes locked on the man he'd come to kill. Up close, he could see the family resemblance—the same dark eyes, the same haughty air, the same stubborn chin that marked them as relatives.
"You know who I am," Dante answered.
"I know what you are," Giovanni told him. "I know what your father sent you to do. And I know that you didn't do it."
The words between them hung, full of meaning unsaid.
"Why?" Giovanni asked. "Why didn't you kill me?"
Dante looked at the relics in the glass display case—golden masks, jeweled daggers, symbols of power and death from another age. He thought about his father's empire, built on fear and blood, and whether it would be relics in a museum someday.
"Because you're innocent," he said to us finally. "Because you chose peace instead of savagery. Because you protected your daughter from the darkness."
Giovanni's eyes relaxed a little. "Fianna."
"Yes. Fianna."
The older man's eyes went back to the case, in which the golden pharaonic mask radiated in the light. "She knows nothing about the family. About what I was. About what I could have been."
"I know."
"And you love her."
It wasn't a question. Dante didn't answer.
"You know what this is," Giovanni continued. "She's your cousin. Your blood. This is taboo."
"I do," Dante repeated, the words heavy on his tongue.
Giovanni stood before him fully now, and Dante saw the ache of pain in his eyes—the pain of a man who had come out of the darkness but still carried its wounds.
"I left the family because I couldn't live with what we were becoming," Giovanni said. "I couldn't raise my daughter in a world of death and blood. I wanted her to know beauty. To know love. To know that there was more to life than power and fear."
"And you did," Dante said. "She's everything you hoped she would be. Everything I never knew I wanted."
Giovanni looked at him for a moment, and Dante saw the conflict there—the love of his daughter and daughter-in-law against what Dante was, what Dante represented.
"You're your father's son," Giovanni finally said.
"I was," Dante said. "I don't know what I am any more."
The older man nodded solemnly, as if he understood. "Love changes everything, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"And you're going to take the risks? To fight for her?"
Dante's mind sprang back to Fianna—her smile, the sound of her laughter, the way she'd looked at him as if looking right through to the center of him. He recalled the belladonna flower in his pocket, so beautiful and deadly, just as their love had been deadly and beautiful.
"I am," he replied.
Giovanni sat in silence for a very long time, regarding the objects in the case. His voice was softer, more resigned, when he finally spoke.
"I can prevent her from this," he said. "From you. From what you represent. But I cannot prevent her from it either. She is her own woman. She makes her own choices."
"Does she have any idea about the family?" Dante asked.
"No. And I don't want her to. Not yet. Maybe never."
Dante nodded, understanding. "I won't tell her anything. Unless she asks me."
Giovanni stood before him again, and this time his eyes had something that was almost acceptance.
"You're not like your father," he said to Dante. "You have his strength, but not his cruelty. You have his determination, but not his ruthlessness."
"I hope so."
"I know so. I see it in your eyes. The same look I saw in Fianna's mother's eyes when I first met her—hope. Love. The belief that human beings could be better than what they had been born to be."
A weight shifted off Dante, some burden lifted from his shoulders.
"Your father's guards are coming," Giovanni said. "I can help you. I have resources. Contacts. People who owe me favors."
"I can't ask you to risk yourself on my behalf."
"You're not asking. I'm offering. For Fianna's sake. For the sake of the man you're becoming."
Dante looked at the older man, and for the first time, did not see a enemy or target, but a father. A man who cared for his daughter enough to place himself between her and the darkness, even if it meant placing himself in its path.
"Thank you," he said.
Giovanni nodded. "I'll call in some debts. Get you out of London. Alive."
"And Fianna?"
"I'll protect her. I'll look out for her. But you need to understand something, Dante. If you're going to love her, be with her, you have to be prepared for what that means."
"What?"
"It's choosing her over everything else. Your family. Your past. Your own existence. It's being prepared to die for her if you have to."
Dante thought of the belladonna flower in his pocket, fragile and deadly petals.
"I am," he told him.
Giovanni looked at him for a slow moment, then nodded once more.
"Then I'll help you. But you're going out of London. Tonight."
"I can't leave until I've spoken with her. Until I've made it understood."
"You can't see her. Not yet. Not when your father's men are arriving. It is too unsafe."
Dante held his chest at the idea of leaving Fianna, without warning, without so much as a word. But Giovanni had been right. He could not risk remaining. It would endanger her.
"I'll write to her," he said.
"Good. But cryptic it must be. Do not speak of the family. Not yet."
Dante nodded, though the idea of deceiving Fianna, even by silence, churned in his stomach.
"I'll get you out of here tonight," Giovanni instructed. "There is a safe house in Scotland. You can remain there until it blows over."
"And then?"
"Then we shall see. But for now, you have to go into hiding."
Dante looked at the things in the case—the gold masks and the jeweled knives, symbols of death and power from a previous time. He thought about his father's kingdom, built upon blood and fear, and whether or not love was strong enough to conquer all of that.
"I'll leave," he said. "But I'll come back. For her."
Giovanni nodded. "I know you will."
They stood there together in quiet for a moment, two men joined by love and blood, looking at the remnants of a dead civilization.
"One final thing," Giovanni said finally. "The blood tie. You must inform her. Eventually. She has a right to know."
"I will. In good time."
"When the time arrives," Giovanni repeated. "But recall, Dante. Love is like those things in the case. Pretty and precious, but fragile. Treat it gently."
Dante recalled the belladonna flower in his pocket, pretty and deadly, just like the love that had changed everything.
"I will," he said.
And as they emerged from the museum, out into the light of the afternoon, Dante knew that nothing more, no matter what might take place from this point forward, could ever make him the same man who had arrived in London on the edge of death and with darkness in his heart.
He had discovered love.
And he was prepared to fight to preserve it.
No matter if it was to battle his own.