Chapter 11 – Beneath the Surface

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The city never really slept. Not Valemont. Not when blood soaked its alleys and ghosts walked its rooftops.

Rain tapped against the windows like a slow, sinister metronome as Dante stood in the kitchen of their new safehouse—an old two-story townhouse in Hollow Park, just far enough from the chaos to buy them a few days of peace. Maybe.

He was slicing apples. Not for himself. For her.

Aria sat at the edge of the dining table, hoodie draped around her shoulders, eyes heavy but alert. She hadn't said much since the last time they saw blood. But he noticed the way she watched him—quiet, curious, conflicted.

She reached for a slice. Their fingers brushed. Neither pulled away.

"Do you always cook after killing people?" she asked softly.

Dante let out a quiet breath—half a chuckle, half a sigh.

"It keeps my hands from shaking."

Aria paused. That answer landed harder than it should've.

"Do they shake?"

He turned to look at her, eyes burning like coals.

"Only after."

She looked down, the apple slice frozen in her grip.

Dante leaned against the counter, arms crossed, knife still in hand.

"You found something," he said.

She blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"You've been distant. Focused. Your mind's been somewhere else."

Aria hesitated, then reached into her backpack and pulled out a worn leather journal. She slid it across the table.

"It belonged to my father. I found it hidden in a hollow panel beneath the floorboards in our old garage."

Dante opened it. The pages were stained, scratched with coded entries and clipped photos. One in particular stopped him cold—a grainy surveillance picture of Luca Moretti, Dante's younger brother. Dated six months before the massacre.

Dante's jaw tightened.

"This shouldn't exist."

"Your brother was alive when this was taken?"

"Yes. I thought he died with the rest of them."

Aria leaned forward. "There's more. My father wrote things… strange things. He talked about extraction routes, falsified death records, and a contact only referred to as 'V.'"

Dante scanned the entries, each word a deeper dagger.

"Verratti," he muttered. "Nico Verratti."

"Who is he?"

Dante's voice dropped to a gravelly whisper.

"He was once my friend. My best friend, even. Before Marco. Before the Vultures became monsters."

"Then why would he betray you?"

He didn't answer immediately. He closed the journal slowly and set it down.

"Because the only thing more dangerous than a traitor… is someone who believes they're saving you."

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Later that night, Dante met Killian and Sam Cruz in the basement of a boxing gym once owned by a former associate. A place full of broken teeth and broken promises.

Killian tossed a flash drive onto the table.

"I decrypted Aria's dad's laptop. There's a hidden drive. Encrypted financial records. Offshore transfers. Hidden aliases. This guy wasn't just laundering money—he was helping people disappear."

**"Witness protection?" Sam asked.

Killian shook his head. "Too clean. This was something else. Private. Controlled. Illegal, but surgical."

Dante stared at the screen showing lines of code and dates.

"Could he have faked Luca's death?"

"Easily," Killian replied. "There's even mention of someone referred to as 'Falcon,' with military ties and knowledge of explosives. That sound familiar?"

Dante nodded grimly.

"That was Luca's call sign in the service."

Sam grunted. "So we're saying your brother survived. And someone hid him."

"More than that," Dante said slowly. "Someone used him."

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Meanwhile, in a hotel suite on the opposite side of Valemont, Marco Eladio poured himself a drink. He stood by the window overlooking the river, watching headlights shimmer in the water like restless spirits.

Behind him stood Nico Verratti.

"You didn't tell me Dante was still alive," Nico said coldly.

Marco took a long sip of whiskey before turning around.

"I didn't think I had to."

"You should've."

"Why?" Marco challenged. "You afraid of him?"

Nico didn't flinch.

"I'm afraid of what he'll learn."

Marco set down his glass and stepped forward.

"Then you better hope he dies before he learns it."

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Back at the townhouse, Aria sat in the dark with the journal in her lap. She flipped through more pages. Her father's handwriting was erratic toward the end—paranoid. Desperate.

She found a passage that read:

> "They told me it was to save lives. That Luca was a risk to the city. But I know the truth now. Verratti isn't protecting Valemont. He's controlling it. And Dante… if you're reading this, I'm sorry. I chose the wrong side once. Don't make the same mistake."

Her throat tightened.

Dante appeared in the doorway, watching her from the shadows.

"You shouldn't be alone with that."

"You think it's dangerous?"

"No. I think it's the truth. And truth changes people."

She stood and approached him slowly.

"What if Luca's alive?"

"Then the real story hasn't even begun."

He walked past her and stopped at the window. Rain had started again, soft at first, then harder—like the sky was washing away old sins.

Aria came up beside him.

"What happens if we find him?"

Dante's voice was a whisper.

"Then I'll finally know who the real enemy is."

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3 Days Later,

A tip from an old informant led them to an abandoned church on the city's west end—derelict, forgotten, buried beneath highway overpasses and graffiti.

Dante stepped into the nave, eyes adjusting to the dim light filtered through cracked stained-glass windows. The scent of mildew and old ash filled the air.

A faint creak.

He turned—gun raised.

An old man stepped from behind a pew, hands up.

"I knew you'd come eventually, Dante."

"Pastor Morales," Dante said, lowering the weapon. "You helped my mother escape once. Why are you still here?"

The pastor smiled sadly. "Because sins leave scars. And this city needs forgiveness more than fire."

Dante approached.

"I need information. About Nico Verratti. About Luca."

Morales nodded. "Then listen carefully. Luca was brought here the night before the massacre. He was wounded—shot in the side. I stitched him up. Two hours later, he was gone."

"Gone where?"

Morales looked Dante in the eyes.

"With Verratti. Your brother made a deal—your family's life in exchange for his disappearance. Verratti promised protection. But something went wrong."

Dante's fists clenched.

"And the massacre?"

"I was told it was punishment. Someone broke the deal. Your brother tried to come back. Verratti ordered the purge."

Dante's breath stopped in his chest.

He turned away, staring at the broken altar.

"He sold his soul to save us. And we died anyway."

Morales stepped forward.

"Not all of you. You survived. And maybe that's why God left you here. To finish what Luca couldn't."

Dante didn't believe in God.

But he believed in justice.

And someone was going to bleed.

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