Chapter 5 - THE SHADOW OVER QUEENS
A month later, Clara was discharged.
The return to her life was not the simple homecoming she had envisioned. She did not return to her cramped apartment in Queens; instead, she was driven to a high-security brownstone in Brooklyn Heights that Dante had secured for her. Although he had promised to stay away, the invisible net of his protection was everywhere.
Two black sedans were permanently parked down the street. Her physical therapy sessions were conducted at home by top specialists paid through an anonymous trust. Every bill that entered her mailbox was returned marked PAID IN FULL .
She was rich, safe, and utterly miserable.
She sat by the window of her new living room, holding a cup of tea that had gone cold, watching the rain beat against the glass. Her shoulder still throbbed with a dull, aching heat whenever the weather turned, a permanent souvenir of the night her life had splintered into two distinct halves: Before Dante, and After Dante.
Her phone rang on the glass coffee table. It was Rosa.
"He's not eating, Clara," the old woman said without greeting. Her voice sounded tired, drained of its usual feistiness. "He stays in his office in Manhattan for three days at a time. The Russo business is finished, but the other families are circling. They know he's distracted."
Clara gripped the phone tighter. "He told me to stay away, Mrs. Marino. He made it very clear."
"He's an idiot!" Rosa snap. "He thinks he's protecting you by cutting his own heart out and leaving it on your doorstep. He thinks that if he suffers enough, God will forgive him for bringing you into his war."
"Is he... is he in danger?" Clara asked, her voice dropped to a whisper.
"In our world, Clara, a man who doesn't care whether he lives or dies is the most dangerous thing alive—mostly to himself," Rosa said softly. "Come to the estate tonight. Don't tell him. Just come."
That night, Clara stood before the massive iron gates of the Oyster Bay estate once again. The guards at the gatehouse didn't even ask for identification; they simply bowed their heads and pressed the button to open the heavy iron bars. Inside the house, the silence was suffocating.
Clara walked down the carpeted hallway toward the library—the room where she had once seen Dante drinking scotch in the dark.
The door was slightly ajar.
Inside, Dante sits behind a massive oak desk, surrounded by maps, financial documents, and legal papers. A single lamp illuminated his profile. He looked Thinner, the sharp lines of his cheekbones more pronounced, his suit jacket draped over the back of a chair as if he hadn't had the energy to put it on properly.
Clara pushed the door open. The soft creak made him reach instantly for the drawer where his gun was kept.
"I told the guards no interruptions—" Dante began, turning his head.
He stopped. The gun in his hand slides back into the drawer as if he had lost all feeling in his fingers.
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Clara stood in the doorway, wearing a simple green sweater and jeans, her left arm held slightly stiffly against her side, her hair tied back in a loose knot.
"You look terrible, Dante," she said softly.
