The morning passed slowly, each hour feeling longer than the last.
Dante sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago, his eyes fixed on the window across the room. Sloane was in the bedroom, changing back into her clothes because his were too big and she said she felt ridiculous wearing them. He had washed her shirt and jeans in the sink, hanging them over the shower rod to dry, and now they were clean if not completely dry.
She can't stay here forever, he thought, turning the cold coffee cup in his hands. But she can't go back to that house either. Not with Marcus looking for her.
He had been thinking about this all night, turning the problem over and over in his mind like a puzzle he could not solve. Dante was good at solving problems. That was why Don Vitale kept him around. Give Dante a target, and the target disappeared. Give Dante a mess, and the mess got cleaned up. Give Dante a question, and he found the answer.
But this was different.
Sloane was not a target or a mess or a question. She was a person. A broken person with bruises on her arms and emptiness in her eyes, and Dante had no idea what to do with her.
The bedroom door opened, and Sloane stepped out in her own clothes. The jeans were still a little damp, and her shirt was wrinkled, but she looked better than she had last night. Less pale. Less fragile. Her hair was brushed back from her face, and the cut above her eyebrow was starting to scab over.
"Better?" she asked, holding her arms out like she was showing off an outfit she was not sure about.
"Better," Dante agreed, though he was not sure if he meant her clothes or her face or just the fact that she was still here.
Sloane walked to the kitchen and sat down across from him. She looked at his cold coffee and then at his face. "You haven't slept."
"No."
"You haven't eaten either."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to take care of yourself." Sloane reached across the table and took the cup from his hands. She stood up, poured the cold coffee down the sink, and started making a fresh pot. Her movements were slow and careful, like she was still sore from last night. "When was the last time someone made you breakfast?"
Dante thought about it. "I don't remember."
"That's what I thought." Sloane opened his cabinets, frowning at how empty they were. "You really don't have any food. Do you have eggs? Bread? Anything?"
"There's bread in the freezer."
Sloane opened the freezer and found the bread, frozen solid. She held it up with a look of disbelief. "You freeze your bread?"
"It lasts longer."
"That's not how bread works." She put the bread on the counter and continued searching, opening drawers and cabinets until she found a pan and some olive oil. "I'm making toast. And eggs if you have them."
"I don't have eggs."
"Then just toast." Sloane turned on the stove and put the pan on the heat. She worked quietly, her back to him, and Dante watched her with a strange feeling in his chest.
She's making me breakfast, he thought. In my kitchen. Like this is normal. Like we're normal people.
But they were not normal people. He was a killer, and she was a girl with a stepfather who wanted to hurt her, and neither of them had any idea what they were doing.
"Your stepfather," Dante said, breaking the silence. "You said he used to work for someone. Who?"
Sloane's hands paused for a moment, then continued buttering the bread. "I don't know exactly. He never talked about it in front of me. But I heard him on the phone sometimes. Late at night. He would go into the basement and close the door, but I could still hear him."
"What did he say?"
"He mentioned a name once." Sloane put the bread in the pan and turned the heat down. "Vitale. He said 'Don Vitale won't be happy about this.' I didn't know what it meant at the time. I thought it was just a name."
Dante felt his blood run cold.
Marcus worked for Don Vitale, he thought, his mind racing. Or he still does. And now his stepdaughter is sitting in my kitchen making me toast.
"Are you sure?" he asked, keeping his voice calm even though his heart was pounding.
Sloane turned to look at him, and she must have seen something in his face because her eyes widened. "You know that name. Don Vitale. You know him."
Dante did not answer immediately. He stood up from the table and walked to the window, looking down at the street below. The black car was back. He saw it parked across the street, same tinted windows, same missing license plate.
They're watching, he thought. They know something.
"Don Vitale is my boss," Dante said quietly. "The man I work for. The man I kill for."
Sloane's face went pale. "Your boss."
"Yes."
"And my stepfather used to work for him."
"Or still does."
Sloane turned back to the stove, her hands shaking as she flipped the bread. "What does that mean? For us? For me?"
Dante walked back to the table and sat down, his eyes never leaving her face. "It means Marcus has connections. It means if he's looking for you, he might ask Don Vitale for help. And if Don Vitale finds out you're here with me..."
He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.
"He'll kill you," Sloane whispered. "For hiding me."
"He'll kill both of us," Dante corrected. "Don Vitale doesn't like loose ends. And you're a loose end now. You know my name. You've seen my face. You're staying in my apartment."
Sloane put the toast on a plate and set it in front of him, but her hands were shaking so badly that the plate rattled against the table. "Then why are you still here? Why don't you just kick me out? Why don't you just..."
"Just what?" Dante asked, looking up at her.
"Just kill me like you kill everyone else."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and cold.
Dante stared at her for a long moment, and something inside him cracked. Not broke. Just cracked. Just enough for him to feel it.
"Because I don't want to," he said simply. "Because for the first time in fifteen years, I don't want to do the easy thing. I want to do the right thing."
Sloane's eyes filled with tears, but she did not cry. She just stood there in his kitchen with her hands shaking and her lip trembling, looking at him like he was the first good thing that had ever happened to her.
"Who are you, Dante Marchetti?" she whispered.
"I don't know anymore," he admitted. "I thought I knew. I thought I was just a weapon. A tool. Something Don Vitale used to clean up his messes. But then I found you in that alley, and you looked at me with those empty eyes, and I saw myself."
Sloane walked around the table and sat down in the chair next to him, close enough that their shoulders were almost touching. "You're not empty," she said softly. "You feel things. You just don't let yourself show it."
Neither do you, Dante wanted to say. You're just as broken as I am. That's why I can't let you go.
But he did not say any of that. He just picked up the toast and took a bite, even though he was not hungry.
"We need to figure out what to do about Marcus," he said, changing the subject. "He's looking for you. He won't stop until he finds you."
Sloane nodded, her face serious. "I know. He's stubborn. And angry. And when he's angry, he does stupid things."
"Like what?"
"Like hurting people." Sloane looked down at her hands, at the bruises on her arms. "He's hurt my mother before. Not as bad as me, but enough to scare her. Enough to make her stay."
Dante felt that dark anger stir in his chest again, the one he had felt when he first saw her bruises. "He won't hurt you again."
"You can't promise that."
"Yes, I can." Dante's voice was hard, leaving no room for argument. "Because I won't let him. You're under my protection now, Sloane. And anyone who tries to hurt you answers to me."
Sloane looked at him with wide eyes, and for a moment, he saw something in her face that he had not seen before. Not emptiness. Not fear. Hope.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked. "You don't owe me anything. You saved my life last night. That's more than anyone has ever done for me. You don't have to keep saving me."
Dante reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were cold and small in his, and when she did not pull away, he felt something loosen in his chest.
"Maybe I'm not doing it for you," he said quietly. "Maybe I'm doing it for me."
"What do you mean?"
"Because saving you makes me feel like I'm not completely dead inside." Dante looked at their hands, her small fingers intertwined with his. "Because when I look at you, I remember what it felt like to be human."
Sloane did not say anything. She just sat there with her hand in his, and the silence between them was not heavy anymore. It was soft. Warm. Like something was finally beginning to heal.
A knock on the door shattered the moment.
Dante was on his feet in an instant, his hand going to the gun tucked in his waistband. He motioned for Sloane to stay quiet and move to the bedroom, but she did not move. She just sat there, frozen, her eyes wide with fear.
Another knock. Louder this time.
Dante walked to the door and looked through the peephole. His whole body tensed when he saw who was standing on the other side.
Marco.
His friend. His partner. The only person in the world he trusted.
What is he doing here? Dante thought. I didn't call him. I didn't tell him about Sloane. How does he know?
"Dante," Marco's voice came through the door, low and urgent. "Open up. We need to talk."
Dante looked back at Sloane, who was still sitting at the table, her face pale as a ghost. He put his finger to his lips, telling her to be quiet, then he opened the door just wide enough to see Marco's face.
Marco was a big man, taller than Dante and broader in the shoulders. He had a shaved head and a scar above his left eye, and he looked like the kind of man who had broken more bones than he could count. But his eyes were kind, and his smile was quick, and Dante had trusted him with his life more times than he could remember.
"What's wrong?" Dante asked, keeping his voice low.
Marco's eyes flicked past Dante, into the apartment, and Dante knew that he had seen something. The toast on the table. The two cups on the counter. The woman's shoes by the door.
"You have company," Marco said. It was not a question.
"It's nothing."
"It doesn't look like nothing." Marco's voice was careful, measured. "Dante, I'm not here to judge. I'm here to warn you."
"Warn me about what?"
Marco leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Don Vitale knows."
Dante's heart stopped. "Knows what?"
"About the girl. About the alley. About the witness you didn't kill." Marco's face was grim. "He knows everything, Dante. I don't know how, but he knows. And he's not happy."
Dante felt the floor drop out from under him.
Don Vitale knows about Sloane, he thought, his mind racing. He knows I broke the blood oath. He knows I have a witness in my apartment. And if he knows that, then he also knows...
"Does he know who she is?" Dante asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Does he know about her father?"
Marco shook his head. "I don't think so. Not yet. But he will. He always finds out."
Dante looked back at Sloane, who was still sitting at the table, watching him with terrified eyes. She could not hear what Marco was saying, but she could see Dante's face, and she knew that something was very wrong.
"What do I do?" Dante asked, turning back to Marco.
Marco put a hand on his shoulder, and for a moment, he looked like the old Marco. The one who had saved Dante's life in a firefight three years ago. The one who had held him together when everything fell apart.
"You have two choices," Marco said quietly. "You give her to Don Vitale, and you hope he's merciful. Or you run."
"Run?"
"Run, Dante. Take her and disappear. Because if you stay, Don Vitale will find her. And when he does, he'll kill her. And then he'll kill you for betraying him."
Dante stared at his friend, his mind spinning.
Run, he thought. Leave everything behind. The blood oath. The family. The only life I've ever known.
Or stay and watch Sloane die.
It was not a choice at all.
"I need time," Dante said.
"You don't have time," Marco replied. "You have maybe a day. Maybe less. Don Vitale is sending someone to check on you. Someone who isn't me."
Dante nodded slowly, his jaw tight. "Thank you, Marco."
"Don't thank me. Just be careful." Marco stepped back from the door, his eyes meeting Dante's one last time. "And Dante? Whatever you decide... I'll help you. You know that, right?"
Dante nodded, and Marco turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Dante closed the door and leaned against it, his heart pounding in his chest.
Sloane stood up from the table, her face pale. "What happened? Who was that?"
Dante looked at her, and for the first time, he let her see the fear in his eyes.
"We have to leave," he said. "Now. Before they come for you."
"Who?"
Dante walked to the bedroom and started packing a bag. Clothes. Money. Guns. Everything they would need to disappear.
"Don Vitale," he said without turning around. "My boss. He knows about you. And if he finds you, he'll kill you."
Sloane followed him into the bedroom, her hands shaking. "Where will we go?"
"I don't know yet. Somewhere far from here. Somewhere he can't find us."
"But your life is here. Your friends. Your..."
"My life doesn't matter," Dante said, turning to face her. "Yours does. And I'm not going to let him take it."
Sloane looked at him with those hazel eyes, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face against his chest. Dante stood frozen for a second, unsure what to do. He had not been hugged in years. He had forgotten what it felt like.
Slowly, hesitantly, he put his arms around her and held her close.
"Thank you," she whispered against his shirt.
"Don't thank me yet," Dante replied, his voice rough. "We're not safe. Not yet."
But as he held her there in his bedroom, with danger closing in from all sides, Dante Marchetti realized something.
He would burn the whole world down to keep her safe.
And he did not care what it cost him.