THE MAFIA'S MAGNETIC CAGE

By 3:00 AM, the private master suite of the Santoro Tower was filled with the peaceful warmth of split cedar burning in the massive granite hearth.

The desert night was cool and clear, the stars hanging like frozen diamonds over the black ridges of the Spring Mountains.

Dante stood on the private master terrace forty stories above the Strip, wearing a soft black cashmere sweater and dark trousers, his hands resting on the stone balustrade.

The wind carried the faint scent of curing creosote and the distant, rhythmic hum of the neon boulevard below.

He flexed his calves against the stone, feeling the blood flow freely through his veins, the phantom numbness completely gone from his legs.

Footsteps sounded softly on the flagstones behind him.

Rose walked out onto the terrace, wrapped in a plush wool shawl, holding two mugs of hot spiced cider.

She stood beside him at the railing, looking down at the sparkling carpet of light that stretched toward the horizon.

“He’s fast asleep in the master bedroom, Don Dante,” Rose whispered, a faint, radiant smile touching her lips. “He tucked that rusty horseshoe magnet right under his pillow. He said he had to keep it safe in case your shoes got heavy again.”

Dante took a mug from her hand, taking a slow sip of the warm cider, a rare, breathtaking warmth softening the harsh lines of his jaw.

“My shoes will never be heavy again, Rose,” Dante murmured, his voice rich with an unshakeable, eternal gravity. “Your boy took the lead out of my blood.”

He turned his head to look at her, his gray eyes searching hers in the moonlight.

“How do you like the view from forty stories up?”

Rose smiled through a fresh shimmer of tears, leaning her shoulder gently against his solid arm.

“It looks like an empire, Dante,” she answered softly.

Dante looked out over the glowing desert, wrapping his strong arm around her shoulders, pulling her close against his side as the clean night wind ruffled their hair.