76I SILENCED A MAFIA BOSS’S SCREAMING TWINS IN THE DARK - THEN HE LEARNED WHY I KNEW HIS DEAD WIFE’S LULLABY

The basement of the Moretti estate did not smell like wine or old memories. It smelled like damp limestone, rusted iron, and the sharp, chemical tang of gun oil.

I sat on a wooden crate that groaned under my weight, my hands tucked into the pockets of my oversized, worn coat. The air down here was thick, heavy enough to lung-burn with every breath. Overhead, the floorboards creaked—the heavy, rhythmic tread of men who wore leather-soled shoes and carried weight in their waistbands.

Thud.

They were searching my room upstairs. I knew how it went. They would tear apart my cheap suitcase. They would rip the lining of my second-hand winter coat. They would find the half-used transit passes, the receipts for my brother Leo’s cheap cigarettes, and the small, silver-plated crucifix my grandmother had given me before her mind dissolved into the fog of dementia.

They would find nothing because there was nothing to find.

But to a man like Dante Moretti, nothing was just a highly sophisticated lie.

The heavy oak door at the top of the stone stairs groaned. A sliver of yellow light cut through the gloom, slicing across the damp floor like a blade. Two sets of footsteps descended. One was light, precise, almost silent—the tread of a predator who didn't want to be heard. The other was heavier, dragging slightly.

Dante Moretti stepped into the dim light of the single, hanging bulb. Behind him stood Viktor, his head of security—the man who had brought the news of the dead body in the harbor. Viktor looked like a wall of scarred muscle, his eyes fixed on me with the cold, professional detachment of a butcher looking at a carcass.

But Dante... Dante looked different.

His coat was off. His white shirt was rolled up at the forearms, revealing thick, dark hair and a faded crescent scar near his left wrist. He didn't look angry. He looked entirely hollowed out by a cold, calculating focus.

"You have five minutes, Clara," Dante said. His voice was low, a dark baritone that seemed to vibrate the very dust motes in the air. "After that, Viktor takes over. And Viktor does not care about lullabies."

"I told you the truth," I said, my voice shaking slightly, though I clamped my teeth together to stop it. "I don't know anything about a locket. I don't know anything about a dead man in the harbor. I took this job because I needed the five thousand dollars. If I wanted to hurt your daughters, why would I have put them to sleep?"

"To gain trust," Viktor grunted from the shadows. "The oldest play in the book. You make yourself indispensable, and then, when the guard is down, you strike."

Dante raised a single hand. Viktor fell silent instantly.

Dante walked closer, the toes of his polished leather shoes stopping barely two inches from mine. He leaned down, his face so close I could smell the faint scent of espresso, tobacco, and something distinctly masculine—cedarwood and rain. His dark eyes searched mine, looking for the tremor, the micro-expression that would betray a trained operative.

"My wife's family," Dante murmured, his voice almost a whisper, "was the Rossi clan. They were wiped out twenty years ago in a feud that turned the streets of Palermo red. Or so we thought. But your grandmother... her maiden name was Rossi. Elena Rossi."

My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest. "She was just Nonna to me. She lived in a small apartment in South Chicago. She grew basil on her windowsill and forgot my name half the time. She wasn't a mafia princess."

"No," Dante agreed, his eyes narrowing. "She was the sister of the last Rossi Don. She fled when the war turned. She hid here, changed her name, and lived like a peasant. But she taught you that song. 'La Luna e il Lupo.' The Moon and the Wolf. It’s not a traditional lullaby, Clara. It was written by a Rossi soldier in the nineteen-forties. My wife, Isabella, sang it to the girls because her mother sang it to her in secret. It is a song of blood. A song of vengeance."

I looked up at him, my eyes stinging. "It was just a song to keep the nightmares away. When the lights went out, she would sing it so I wouldn't hear the sirens outside our window."

"And yet, you knew to turn off the lights," Dante said, his grip suddenly tightening on my jaw. His fingers were like iron, forcing me to look up into his fierce, tortured face. "The girls... they haven't slept in a dark room since the night their mother died. The night the house was attacked. They screamed when the lights were on, yes, because they were terrified of what they could see. But no one—no doctor, no therapist—dared to turn the lights off. They thought it would worsen the trauma. How did you know?"

"Because when you're terrified," I gasped out, the pressure on my jaw making it hard to speak, "the light doesn't protect you. It just highlights all the corners where the monsters can hide. In the dark... you are equal to the monster. You can hide too."

Dante stared at me. For a fraction of a second, his grip loosened. A look of raw, bleeding vulnerability flickered across his face before he masked it behind his iron facade.

"Boss," Viktor intervened, holding up a sleek, black tablet. "We just pulled the phone records from her brother, Leo. There’s a call. Three hours ago. From an unlisted burner phone. The tower pings put the caller right near the harbor where the body was found."

Dante's face went completely cold. The warmth that had briefly flickered in his eyes died, replaced by a dark, terrible emptiness.

"Clara," he whispered, leaning in so close his lips almost brushed my ear. "Tell me you didn't sell my daughters to save your brother."

"I didn't!" I sobbed, the tears finally breaking free. "I swear to God, Dante, I didn't! Leo is an idiot, he’s a gambler, but he doesn't know anything about this! Please!"

"Keep her here," Dante ordered Viktor, turning his back on me without a second glance. "Double the guard on the nursery. If anyone so much as breathes near those stairs, shoot to kill."

"And her?" Viktor asked, pointing a thick finger at me.

"If her brother calls again," Dante said, his voice echoing coldly off the stone walls as he walked toward the stairs, "find him. Bring him here. We will see how much she sings when he starts losing his fingers."