20: The Silent Dinner

CHAPTER TWENTY

POV: Julian Vane

The dining room of the Moretti estate felt larger than it had that morning, the high vaulted ceilings echoing with a silence that felt like a physical weight. The table was set with white linen, heavy silver, and a single bottle of red wine that looked like a pool of blood in the dim candlelight.

Dante was already seated at the head, his jacket removed, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the dark ink on his forearms. He was reading a report, but the moment I entered, he set it aside. His eyes those deep, obsidian wells, tracked my movement with a predatory focus.

"You're late," he said. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, the sound of a man who had been counting every second of my absence. "The kitchen had to restart the lamb."

"I was clearing my head," I said, sliding into my chair. The wood creaked, a sharp sound in the quiet room. "The city feels... different after the Cathedral. I needed to see it for myself."

"And did you?" he asked, picking up the wine bottle. He poured a glass for me, the liquid gurgling softly. "See what you needed to see?"

I looked at the wine, then at him. I could still feel the weight of the FBI folder in my bag upstairs. I could still see the jagged D. Moretti signature on the microfilm reader.

"I saw the North End," I said.

The hand holding the wine bottle stilled for a fraction of a second so slight that anyone else would have missed it. But I was an auditor. I was trained to find the smallest discrepancy in a pattern.

"The North End is a slum," Dante said, finishing the pour and setting the bottle down with a controlled click. "Why go there?"

"I was looking for the ghost of a building," I replied, picking up my fork. "442 O'Malley Street. Do you remember it, Dante? It was one of the first routes you ever ran for my father."

The silence that followed was different from the one before. This one was charged, like the air before a lightning strike. Dante leaned back, his shadow stretching long across the table.

"I ran a lot of routes for Arthur," he said. "He was a man who liked to keep his hands clean and his trucks full. I don't remember every address."

"This one was special," I said, my voice dropping. "It’s where my mother died. An 'industrial accident,' they called it. A chemical fire."

Dante picked up his glass, his eyes never leaving mine. He took a slow, deliberate sip. "I remember the fire. It was a tragedy. It’s what brought the Morettis and the Vanes together in a permanent alliance. My father stood by yours at the funeral."

"Is that what happened?" I leaned forward, the candlelight dancing in my eyes. "Or did the fire happen because the Morettis and the Vanes were already together? Did a young enforcer deliver a shipment of accelerants to a residential basement because a King wanted to be rid of his Queen?"

Dante set his glass down. He didn't deny it. He didn't look shocked. He just stared at me, his face a mask of iron.

"Is that what the FBI told you today, Julian?"

My heart stopped. He knew. Of course he knew. He had eyes everywhere.

"They showed me the manifest, Dante," I whispered, the rage finally bubbling up through the fear. "I saw your signature. I saw the date. You were eighteen. You were a boy, and you helped my father kill the only person in that family who ever loved me."

Dante stood up. He didn't move toward me; he walked to the window, looking out at the darkened grounds of the estate.

"I was eighteen," he said, his back to me. "I was a soldier in a war I didn't understand yet. Your father told mine that there was a shipment of high-value textiles that needed to be moved to a 'private holding' to avoid a customs audit. He gave me the keys. He gave me the manifest."

He turned around, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something that looked like pain in his eyes.

"I didn't know she was in the building, Julian. I didn't know it was an accelerant until the news hit the wires the next morning. I was a puppet, just like you were. Your father used us both."

"You still signed it," I spat. "You still did his dirty work for fifteen years after that. You stayed loyal to the man who made you a murderer."

"I stayed loyal to the only life I had!" Dante roared, his voice shaking the crystal on the table. He moved toward me, his presence overwhelming. He grabbed the edges of my chair, leaning down until our faces were inches apart.

"Do you think I wanted that blood on my hands? Do you think I haven't seen that fire every time I close my eyes? Why do you think I bought you, Julian? Why do you think I tore the Vane empire apart the second your father died?"

I looked at him, my breath hitching. "You... you weren't taking over. You were destroying it."

"I was ending the rot," Dante whispered. "I was taking the only thing Arthur Vane ever cared about his legacy and I was giving it to the one person he spent his life trying to break. You."

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he touched my hair. "I can't bring her back. I can't erase my name from that page. But I have spent every day since I took the throne making sure that no one will ever hurt you again. Not even me."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to lean into his touch and forget the microfilm and the FBI agent. But the logic of the auditor wouldn't let me.

"Agent Vance wants the server codes," I said. "She wants to put you in a cage."

Dante didn't pull away. He didn't reach for his gun. He just looked at me with a terrifying, absolute trust.

"Then give them to her," he said.

"What?"

"If you think that will give you peace, Julian... if you think putting me in a cell will balance the books for your mother... then do it. The codes are in the safe in the library. The combination is your birthdate."

He stepped back, his hands falling to his sides. "I told you once that I didn't marry a puppet. I married a man. That man has to decide what kind of justice he wants. I'm going to the study. The wine is yours."

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving me alone in the flickering candlelight.

I looked at the wine. I looked at the silver ring on my finger.

The combination was my birthdate. He had built his entire security around the one thing his enemies would never guess: his obsession with me.

I stood up, my legs shaking. I didn't go to the wine. I went to the library.

The books were waiting. The truth was waiting. And for the first time in my life, I was the one holding the match.