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29: The Butcher’s Mercy
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2026-01-09 20:35:50CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
POV: Julian Vane
The funeral for Vincenzo Moretti was a monochrome affair of black umbrellas and whispered lies. It was held at the private Moretti mausoleum, a marble structure that looked more like a fortress than a tomb. Rain fell in a persistent, cold drizzle, washing the soot of the shipyard from the city’s skin, but it couldn't wash away the heavy, suffocating weight of the Moretti legacy.
Dante stood at the head of the casket, his face a mask of stone. He hadn't shed a tear. He had spent the last forty-eight hours purging the last of the "Old Guard" the Capos who had looked at Vincenzo with longing and at me with contempt. They were gone now, vanished into the "retirement" Dante had fashioned for them.
I stood beside him, my hand tucked into the crook of his arm. I wore a black veil, not for mourning, but for the privacy it afforded. Beneath the lace, my eyes were scanning the crowd. I wasn't looking for grief; I was looking for the future.
When the last of the soil was thrown, and the priests had finished their hollow blessings, the crowd dispersed. They bowed to Dante, then they bowed to me lower this time, with a fear that was finally flavored with respect. They knew what had happened at Pier 12. They knew the "Golden Prince" had outplayed a Syndicate and outlived a Don.
"He died hating the world he built," Dante said, his voice a low vibration that barely carried over the rain. He was looking at the fresh engraving: VINCENZO MORETTI - THE LAST BUTCHER.
"He died because he couldn't evolve, Dante," I said, stepping closer to him. I reached out and wiped a stray drop of rain from his cheek. "He wanted a dynasty of blood. He didn't realize that a dynasty of mind is much harder to kill."
Dante turned to me. The obsidian coldness in his eyes finally cracked, revealing the man beneath the man who had been a soldier, a murderer, and finally, a husband. He grabbed my hand, his thumb tracing the silver ring that had become a part of my very identity.
"Leo is gone," Dante noted. "Marco tracked him to a private clinic in Montreal. He’s safe. And he’s staying out of the city."
"Good," I whispered. "He did his part. The Vane name is officially a ghost. There is only Moretti now."
Dante pulled me into his space, his overcoat shielding me from the wind. "I told you once that I would break you, Julian. I told you that I would take everything you were and turn it into something I could use."
"And did you?" I asked, a faint smile touching my lips.
"No," Dante said, his voice thick with a sudden, raw honesty. "You’re the one who broke me. You audited my life and found every deficit I was trying to hide. You didn't just save the empire, Julian. You saved the man."
He leaned down, his forehead resting against mine. The scent of rain and sandalwood was the only thing in my world.
"The contract is over," Dante whispered. "The terms are met. The Vane debt is paid in full. You’re free, Julian. If you want to walk away, if you want that life Agent Vance promised you... the car is waiting. The accounts are in your name. You owe me nothing."
I looked at him truly looked at him. I saw the power, the violence, and the terrifying, beautiful capacity for love that he had hidden behind the "Butcher" mask. I looked at the mausoleum, then at the city skyline rising in the distance.
"I’m an auditor, Dante," I said, reaching up to cup his face. "I don't leave a project when the numbers finally balance. I stay to see the profit."
I stepped closer, my lips brushing his. "I’m not a Vane, and I’m not a prisoner. I’m a Moretti. And we have a city to run."
Dante let out a breath that sounded like a prayer. He kissed me a slow, deep vow that wasn't about contracts or blood debts. It was about a future we had built from the ashes of our pasts.
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