Page 117 of Dante

He nods and leads us through the shop. We walk past wooden shelves and cardboard boxes. Then through a narrow storage room that smells of cork and cold stone.

I recognize the ancient, low-framed, wooden door. From experience, I know it takes only three strong kicks to open.

In seconds, it’s done.

The passage beyond is barely wide enough for a man’s shoulders. Stone floor. Marco angles his phone down for light. We move quickly without speaking.

Forty meters later, the passage opens up.

The catacombs spread out into a vaulted chamber ahead.

Candlelight flickers from somewhere to the left. Then I hear ghost-like voices, amplified and directionless.

I give the signal we agreed upon.

Marco peels left. I go straight.

Lorenzo stays at the passage entrance.

I can hear Silvio’s voice now, measured. Unhurried.

I move toward it and see Gina, seated, wrists bound, her dress incongruous against the stone.

Silvio stands with his back partially to me, still talking.

His two men are positioned badly.

They likely expected me to come down the grand staircase like some kind of amateur, guns blazing.

Instead, I’ve emerged from a centuries-old tunnel that connects to a wine shop in the opposite direction.

Lorenzo’s gun flashes in the darkness, the first man’s body crumpling before I even register the sound.

The second guard pivots, his weapon half-raised. I don’t hesitate.

I squeeze the trigger twice, and he drops like a puppet with cut strings. His gun clatters against the stone floor.

The gunshots bounce off every surface of the catacomb, multiplying into a deafening roar.

Silvio turns.

For a moment we simply look at each other, nephew and uncle. Ten feet of cold stone between us.

His expression settles into a twisted smirk.

“You think that killing your own blood makes you a Don? You’re soft, Dante. Soft.”

If he hadn’t tied Gina up like an animal, I might have given him a second chance.

He is my uncle, after all. But now… No.

He’s dead before he can finish whatever he was going to say.

I rush toward Gina, crouching as I work at the binding on her wrists. My hands are steady. Hers tremble.

I hold them for a moment and look into her face.

She doesn’t speak.