The victory tasted like ash. As Victor and I walked away from the Villa d’Oro, leaving the smoldering remains of Dante’s reputation behind us, I felt no elation. There was only the cold, metallic certainty of a job half-done. Justice in our world was not a verdict handed down by a council of old men; it was a final, bloody entry in a ledger.
We descended into the concrete labyrinth of the underground parking garage. The air, thick with the smell of exhaust and damp stone, was a stark contrast to the cloying cigar smoke of the summit. The silence was broken only by the sharp click of my heels on the floor, each step an echo in the cavernous space. Victor’s hand was a firm, steady presence at the small of my back, a silent guard.
We were halfway to his armored sedan when a figure detached
