Deadly Devotion

Chapter Eleven: The Confrontation

I drove to the cottage alone.

The entire two hour drive, I rehearsed what I'd say. How I'd explain. What words could possibly make him understand.

None of them felt adequate.

The cottage looked exactly the same. Weathered wood, perched on the cliff, ocean stretching endlessly beyond. The last time I'd been here, Dante had told me he loved me.

Now he was here to hear why I'd destroyed him.

His car was already in the driveway. I parked beside it, my hands shaking on the wheel.

I could still turn around. Drive away. Spare us both this final devastation.

But I'd come too far to run now.

I got out of the car, walked to the door. It opened before I could knock.

Dante stood there. He looked different. Thinner. Exhausted. His eyes were hard, guarded. Nothing like the warm, open expression I'd fallen in love with.

"Come in," he said. His voice was flat. Emotionless.

I stepped inside. The cottage felt different too. Colder. Like something vital had been drained from it.

"You want a drink?" he asked, walking to the kitchen.

"No. Thank you."

He poured himself whiskey anyway. Drank half of it in one swallow.

"You said you wanted to explain. So explain."

I took a breath. "My real name is Mia Santos. That part was true. I am an art consultant. That was true too. But I'm also FBI. Was FBI. They fired me last week."

"Good."

The word was cold and brutal.

"I was assigned to your family two months before we met. My partner, Brian Costa, was killed investigating the DeLucas eighteen months ago. They pulled his body from the East River. He was my friend. My mentor. The person who taught me everything about this job."

Dante's expression didn't change. "So this was revenge."

"It was justice. There's a difference."

"Not from where I'm standing."

"I went undercover as an art dealer. My job was to get close to you. Seduce you if necessary. Gather evidence on your family's criminal activities. Build a case to bring you all down."

"How romantic."

"The gallery opening wasn't an accident. I knew you'd be there. I researched your interests, your patterns. I positioned myself in front of that painting knowing you'd approach."

"Congratulations. Your plan worked perfectly."

"It did. At first. Everything went according to plan. You asked me out. I said yes. We started dating. I gathered intelligence. Sent it to my handler. Did my job."

"And f****d me while you were at it."

The crudeness was intentional. Meant to hurt.

"Yes. That was part of the plan initially. Get physically close. Create intimacy and trust I could exploit."

He poured more whiskey. "At least you're honest now."

"But then something changed. Somewhere between the lies and the mission, I fell in love with you. For real. That wasn't planned. That wasn't part of any strategy. It just happened."

"Bullshit."

"It's true."

"How am I supposed to believe anything you say? You've been lying since the moment we met." He drained his glass. "Every word, every touch, every time you said you loved me. All lies."

"Not all of it. The beginning, yes. But what we had at the end, that was real."

"Define the end. When did it become real? After the first week? The first month? When exactly did FBI Agent Mia Santos decide she actually had feelings for her target?"

I thought back. Trying to pinpoint the exact moment.

"The cottage. The first time you brought me here. When you told me this was the only place you felt free. When you said you'd never brought anyone else here." I looked at him. "That's when I knew I was in too deep. That's when I knew I'd fallen in love with you."

"So everything before that was fake."

"Not fake. Complicated. Confusing. I was attracted to you from the start. That was real. But I kept telling myself it was just chemistry. Just physical. Just part of the job."

"And then?"

"And then I couldn't lie to myself anymore. I was in love with you. Genuinely, completely in love. And I didn't know what to do about it."

He laughed bitterly. "You could have told me the truth."

"I tried. That last night. Before Marco showed up. I was going to tell you everything."

"Why?"

"Because you deserved to know. Because I couldn't live with the lie anymore. Because I loved you too much to keep betraying you."

"But you did betray me. Even trying to tell me the truth was a betrayal. Warning me about the investigation so I could run. That's not love. That's just switching sides."

"Maybe. I don't know anymore. I just knew I couldn't let you be blindsided. Couldn't let the FBI arrest you without giving you a chance to prepare."

Dante set his glass down hard. "You want credit for that? For being willing to betray your oath, your job, your dead partner? That doesn't make you noble. It makes you a traitor to both sides."

He was right. I'd betrayed everyone. The Bureau. Brian's memory. Dante himself.

"I know what I am. I know what I did. I'm not asking for forgiveness."

"Then what are you asking for?"

"Understanding. Just... understanding that it was real. What I felt for you. What we had. It started as a lie but it became real. I need you to know that."

"Why? What difference does it make?"

"Because I can't live with you thinking it was all fake. That I felt nothing. That you meant nothing." My voice broke. "You meant everything. You still do."

He walked to the window, stared out at the ocean. His back to me.

"I was going to propose," he said quietly. "Properly. I had a ring picked out. Was planning to bring you here, to this cottage. Ask you to marry me where we'd been the happiest."

The pain in his voice was unbearable.

"I thought about our future constantly. What our life would look like. Kids maybe. Growing old together. Ridiculous, romantic fantasies." He turned to face me. "And the whole time, you were building a case to put me in prison."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix this. Sorry doesn't undo the fact that you took everything from me. My trust. My heart. My ability to ever believe someone could love me for me and not what I could give them."

"That's not fair. I did love you for you."

"You loved a version of me you created in your head. The conflicted mobster who wanted out of the family business. The tragic figure you could save. But that's not who I am."

"I know exactly who you are. The good and the bad. The legitimate businessman and the criminal. The man who collects art and the man whose family kills people. I saw all of it. And I loved all of it."

"Then you're as damaged as I am."

We stood there in the cottage, the ocean roaring outside, the space between us vast and uncrossable.

"I brought something," I said finally. I pulled out the envelope Isabella had given me. "Your mother gave me this."

His expression shifted. "What is it?"

"Information. About where your family moved everything after I was exposed. New locations, new accounts, new operations. Everything the FBI would need to rebuild the case."

He went very still. "My mother gave you that?"

"She said I deserved the truth. And you deserved to know that I had a choice. To give this to the FBI or to destroy it."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm here. To ask you what you want me to do."

"You're asking my permission to destroy my family?"

"I'm asking if there's any path forward where we're not enemies. Where maybe, someday, you could forgive me."

He walked to me, took the envelope from my hands. Opened it. Read through the documents.

"This is everything," he said. "This would bury us."

"I know."

He looked at me. "You have this kind of power over my family and you're asking me what to do with it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I love you. And if you tell me to destroy it, I will. I'll burn it all and walk away. Let your family be free. Let you be free."

"And throw away any chance of justice for your partner."

"Yes."

"That's insane."

"Maybe. But it's true."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he did something I didn't expect.

He walked to the fireplace, grabbed matches from the mantle, lit one.

And set the envelope on fire.

We both watched it burn. All that evidence. All that information. Turning to ash.

"There," he said when it was done. "Your choice is made for you."

"Dante..."

"You want to know why I did that? Because you were wrong. There is no path forward for us. There's no version of this story where we end up together. You destroyed that when you lied to me."

"I know."

"But I'm not going to let you destroy yourself trying to choose between me and your conscience. The evidence is gone. Your job is done. Your mission failed. Now you get to live with that."

"I can live with it. As long as you know the truth. As long as you know I loved you."

"I'll never know that. Not really. Because how can I trust anything you say? How can I believe any of it was real when it started as a lie?"

He was right. There was no way to prove it. No way to make him believe.

"I should go," I said.

"Yeah. You should."

I walked to the door. Stopped. Turned back.

"For what it's worth, you were right about one thing."

"What's that?"

"I am damaged. Broken. This job, this life, it broke something in me a long time ago. But when I was with you, I felt whole. For the first time in years, I felt like a real person. Not an agent. Not a role. Just me." I swallowed hard. "You gave me that. Even if it was based on lies, you made me feel human again. So thank you for that."

His expression cracked. Just for a second. I saw pain flash across his face.

"Get out, Mia."

I left.

Got in my car. Drove away from the cottage for the last time.

In my rearview mirror, I saw him standing in the doorway. Watching me leave.

And I knew it was really over.

I drove back to the city in silence.

No music. No radio. Just the sound of the road and my own thoughts.

Dante had burned the evidence. Made the choice for me. Given up any chance of bringing down his family to spare me the decision.

That meant something. It had to mean something.

Or maybe it just meant he wanted me gone. Wanted to be free of me and everything I represented.

Either way, it was done.

I'd told him the truth. He'd heard it. Rejected it. Rejected me.

There was nothing left to do but accept it.

When I got home, there was someone waiting outside my apartment building.

Chen.

"We need to talk," she said.

"I have nothing to say to you."

"I heard you met with Isabella DeLuca yesterday. I know she gave you something."

I looked at her. "How did you know about that?"

"We've been watching the family. Saw you meet with her at the cafe. Saw her give you an envelope." She stepped closer. "What was in it, Mia?"

"Nothing. Personal correspondence."

"Bullshit. Isabella DeLuca doesn't do personal. What did she give you?"

"It doesn't matter. It's gone now."

"What do you mean gone?"

"Burned. Destroyed. You're never getting it back."

Her expression hardened. "You destroyed evidence?"

"It wasn't evidence. I wasn't an agent anymore, remember? You fired me. So whatever Isabella gave me was mine to do with as I pleased."

"This is obstruction. I can have you arrested."

"Do it. I don't care anymore."

We stared at each other. Two women who used to be on the same side, now adversaries.

"You chose him," Chen said finally. "Over your partner. Over the Bureau. Over everything we worked for. You chose the criminal."

"I chose love. For the first time in my life, I chose love over duty. And I'd do it again."

"Even knowing it cost you everything?"

"Even knowing that."

She shook her head. "You're pathetic."

"Maybe. But at least I'm honest now. Can you say the same?"

She walked away without answering.

I went inside my apartment. Locked the door. Sat on the couch in the dark.

It was over. All of it. My career. My mission. My relationship with Dante.

I'd lost everything.

But in the cottage, when Dante burned that envelope, I'd seen something in his eyes.

Pain. Anger. Hurt.

But underneath it all, for just a second, I'd seen love.

He still loved me. Even hating me, even wanting me gone, some part of him still loved me.

That didn't fix anything. Didn't change the fact that we were over.

But it meant I'd been right about one thing.

What we had was real.

Even if it destroyed us both, it was real.

And maybe, in the wreckage of everything I'd lost, that was enough to hold onto.

Or maybe I was just lying to myself one more time.

Either way, it was all I had left.