Terminal Velocity

The airstrip was a strip of cracked asphalt in the middle of nowhere. A small twin-engine plane sat at the end, engines cold.

Dante skidded the SUV to a halt next to the plane.

"Move," Dante shouted, jumping out. He ran to the passenger side and hauled Cain out. Cain was heavy, his legs dragging.

"Dante..." Cain murmured. "Leave me. Take the plane."

"I'm not flying this thing alone!" Dante dragged him toward the ramp.

A gunshot cracked the air. Concrete exploded near Dante’s foot.

He spun around.

Standing by the edge of the mangroves was Luca, his father’s right-hand man. The man who had bought Dante his first legal beer. The man who was currently aiming a rifle at Dante’s chest.

"Dante!" Luca shouted. "Step away from the freak! Your father wants to talk!"

"He wants to kill me!" Dante yelled back, shielding Cain with his body.

"He's reconsidered!" Luca lied, walking closer. "Come home, Dante. We can fix this."

Dante looked at Luca. He saw the lie in his eyes. He saw the same look his father had—the look one gives a broken asset before discarding it.

Dante raised the 9mm. His hand was steady. The tremors of the past week were gone, burned away by the fire of survival.

"I am home," Dante said.

He pulled the trigger.

The shot hit Luca in the chest. The enforcer looked surprised, dropping his rifle, and fell backward into the mud.

Dante didn't wait to check the body. He hauled Cain up the ramp and slammed the door.

He strapped Cain into the co-pilot seat. He jumped into the pilot’s seat. He knew how to fly—one of his many expensive, useless hobbies that suddenly wasn't so useless.

He fired the engines. The plane rattled down the runway.

As they lifted off, clearing the tree line just as more Russo vehicles swarmed the tarmac, Dante looked down at the shrinking figures of his past life.

He felt a strange sensation in his chest. It wasn't fear. It wasn't numbness.

It was freedom.

Epilogue: The Coast

Six months later.

The terrace overlooked the Tyrrhenian Sea. The air smelled of salt, lemons, and peace.

Dante sat at the wrought-iron table, reading a newspaper. His hair was shorter, his skin tanned. He wore a simple linen shirt, the top buttons undone.

A shadow fell over him.

Cain placed two espressos on the table. The scar on his face had faded slightly, but it was still there, a map of their history. He moved with a slight limp, a reminder of the swamp.

"Anything interesting?" Cain asked, sitting down.

"Salvatore Russo died of a heart attack," Dante said, tapping the paper. "Officially."

"Unofficially?"

"Unofficially, the Commission found out he tried to kill his own son and forced him into early retirement. Six feet under."

Dante folded the paper and pushed it away. He didn't care. It felt like reading about a stranger.

Cain reached out and took Dante’s hand. His grip was warm, solid.

"You're safe," Cain said.

"I know," Dante replied. He brought Cain’s hand to his lips, kissing the scarred knuckles.

Dante looked out at the ocean. He wasn't the Prince of Miami anymore. He wasn't the liability. He was Dante. And the man sitting across from him—the monster who had stolen him—was the only thing he had ever truly owned.

"Let's go down to the water," Dante said, standing up.

Cain followed him, always a half-step behind, his eyes fixed on Dante with a devotion that would burn the world down if asked.

And for the first time in his life, Dante didn't look back.