Chapter 12 – [THE FINAL PROMISE]
Dante wiped a streak of blood from his jawline, breathing heavily as he looked down at the unconscious driver at his feet.
I stopped dead in my tracks, my chest heaving.
The back door of the Mercedes slowly opened.
“Auntie Claire?” a small voice asked.
Leo climbed out of the backseat, clutching a coloring book. He looked at the unconscious man on the gravel, then up at Dante. “Is that man sleeping?”
I let out a sob of pure relief, running forward and dropping to my knees. I pulled Leo into my arms, burying my face in his neck. He smelled like vanilla and childhood, and he was completely unharmed.
“Yes, baby,” I cried, kissing his cheeks over and over. “He’s just sleeping.”
Dante dropped the bloody wrench into the gravel. He walked over and crouched beside us, his gray eyes scanning my face for injuries.
“Bellini’s men caught me off guard in the fields,” Dante said grimly. “Knocked me out. When I woke up, I saw the car. Are you alright? Where is Bellini?”
“He’s in the vault,” I said, catching my breath. “I sealed the door.”
Dante stared at me, a slow smile spreading across his bruised face. “You locked the boss of the Bellini syndicate inside an airtight tomb?”
“He wanted the gold,” I said simply.
Dante let out a rough laugh, shaking his head. “Vincenzo was right about you, Claire. You’re more Moretti than any of us.”
I stood up, holding Leo’s hand tightly in mine.
Police sirens echoed in the distance, winding their way up the Tuscan hills. My mother had heard the vault alarm and called the local Carabinieri.
By the time the authorities arrived, we were sitting on the terrace again.
They arrested Bellini’s driver, and it took them three hours to drill through Vincenzo’s vault door to pull a gasping, defeated Don Bellini out. He was handcuffed and dragged away, his empire finally, permanently crushed into dust.
As the sun began to set, painting the Italian sky in brilliant shades of gold and purple, Rosa wheeled herself out to join us.
She looked at the police cars fading into the distance, then turned to me.
“So,” the eighty-two-year-old matriarch said, adjusting the knitted shawl over her shoulders. “Are we finally done with the drama, Claire?”
I looked at Dante, who was showing Leo how to skip stones in the courtyard fountain. I looked at my mother, who was peacefully reading a book in the evening light.
I took a deep breath of the sweet, grape-scented air.
“Yes, Nonna,” I smiled, resting my hand on her shoulder. “The drama is over. We’re finally home.”
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