Chapter 13 - Dante
Chap-ter 13 - Dante
The un-der-ground club is thick with smoke, the scent of whiskey and sweat cling-ing to the air like a sec-ond skin. The bass pounds, re-ver-ber-at-ing through the walls, a steady thrum that rat-tles the glass in my hand. It should be deaf-en-ing, should drown out the thoughts claw-ing at my skull, but it doesn’t.
Noth-ing does.
My grip tight-ens around the heavy glass of scotch. The am-ber liq-uid sloshes slightly, catch-ing the dim glow of the over-head lights. I stare into it like the an-swer to my tur-moil might be hid-ing at the bot-tom of the glass. But I al-ready know—there’s no an-swer. No clar-ity. No god-damn re-lief.
I tip it back and swal-low. It burns on the way down, sharp and un-for-giv-ing, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to numb the fire in-side me.
I haven’t slept. Haven’t eaten. Haven’t fuck-ing stopped think-ing about her.
Elena.
Where the fuck is she?
The ques-tion rips through me for the hun-dredth time tonight, a re-lent-less blade dig-ging into my gut. I ex-hale sharply, jaw clench-ing as I roll my shoul-ders, try-ing to shake off the suf-fo-cat-ing weight press-ing against my ribs. The knot of ten-sion in my spine tight-ens, coils so tight it feels like I might snap.
I shouldn’t have left her.
I shouldn’t have walked away.
Be-cause now—
Now, she’s gone.
And it’s my fuck-ing fault.
The thought shreds through me, vi-cious and un-for-giv-ing. My pulse spikes, and my fin-gers twitch around the glass, rest-less with the need to do some-thing, any-thing, to fix this. But I don’t know where to start. Don’t know how to chase a ghost when I was the one who let it dis-ap-pear in the first place.
I drain the rest of my scotch in one harsh gulp, barely reg-is-ter-ing the burn. My body is tight, rest-less, vi-brat-ing with the kind of en-ergy that only de-struc-tion could soothe.
Then—
The heavy doors to the club slam open.
I stiffen, in-stincts sharp-en-ing like a blade. The mu-sic doesn’t stop, and the crowd doesn’t flinch, but I hear it—boots pound-ing against the floor, cut-ting through the thick haze of smoke and sweat. Pur-pose-ful. Ur-gent.
Then I see him.
Luca Ricci.
His face is pale, his dark eyes wide with some-thing dan-ger-ously close to panic.
And in that mo-ment—be-fore he even opens his mouth—I al-ready fuck-ing know.
Luca doesn’t waste time.
“She’s gone.”
Two words.
That’s all it takes for me to snap.
The glass in my hand shat-ters, shards slic-ing into my palm, but I don’t feel a god-damn thing. I barely no-tice the blood drip-ping onto the ta-ble, stain-ing the wood a dark crim-son. It doesn’t mat-ter.
Noth-ing fuck-ing mat-ters ex-cept those two words.
My heart slams against my ribs. My breath-ing turns sharp, un-even.
“What?” My voice is lethal, quiet in a way that makes the air feel ra-zor-thin.
Luca clenches his jaw. “Elena. Is-abella took her.”
Is-abella.
A rush of white-hot rage slices through me, bru-tal and con-sum-ing.
I should have killed her at the mar-ket.
I should have fuck-ing known.
My chair scrapes vi-o-lently against the floor as I push up to my feet. The club blurs around me, flash-ing lights and puls-ing mu-sic fad-ing into static in my ears. My vi-sion tun-nels, dark and sharp, in-stincts roar-ing in-side me like a caged an-i-mal.
“How long?” My voice is rough, barely con-trolled.
“Two hours,” Luca mut-ters. “They am-bushed her car be-fore she reached the air-port. Took her alive.”
My fists clench. My en-tire body vi-brates with pent-up fury, the kind that de-mands blood, de-mands vengeance. I can al-ready see the count-less ways this could end.
None of them are good. None of them are clean.
But I don’t hes-i-tate.
My de-ci-sion is al-ready made.
“Where is Alessan-dro Ro-mano?”
Luca’s brows fur-row. “Why the fuck does that mat-ter?”
I turn to him, eyes burn-ing with some-thing dark. Some-thing ab-so-lute.
“Be-cause I’m about to tell him the truth.”
The Ro-mano es-tate looms in front of me, a fortress carved into the hills out-side the city. The iron gates stretch high, their spikes glint-ing un-der the flood-lights. Be-yond them, miles of open land pro-vide a deadly buf-fer against un-wanted guests—a silent warn-ing that only fools would ig-nore. Armed guards pa-trol the grounds, their sharp eyes scan-ning the perime-ter, their fin-gers twitch-ing near the trig-gers of their weapons.
I walk in like a man with noth-ing to lose.
Be-cause af-ter this?
I’m done.
No more play-ing both sides. No more Nic-colò fuck-ing Moretti.
This?
This is about her.
The grand doors swing open, re-veal-ing a dimly lit study soaked in the scent of aged whiskey and cigar smoke. The walls are lined with dark wooden shelves, their leather-bound books long for-got-ten. A fire crack-les in the stone hearth, cast-ing flick-er-ing shad-ows across the floor.
Be-hind an elab-o-rate ma-hogany desk, Alessan-dro Ro-mano sits like a king on his throne. The years have carved lines into his face, but his sharp green eyes re-main un-touched—watch-ful, pierc-ing. The weight of his pres-ence is suf-fo-cat-ing, an un-spo-ken warn-ing wo-ven into the very air of the room.
The guards tense the sec-ond I step for-ward, their hands hov-er-ing near their weapons, wait-ing for the small-est sign of hos-til-ity.
I don’t flinch.
I stride for-ward, ev-ery step de-lib-er-ate, my shoul-ders squared, my heart ham-mer-ing against my ribs.
There’s no room for hes-i-ta-tion.
No room for fear.
I stop just short of his desk, fists clenched at my sides.
Alessan-dro leans back, an amused smirk curl-ing his lips as he ex-hales a slow stream of smoke.
“Well, well,” he muses, voice smooth, mea-sured. “You’re ei-ther very brave or very stupid to walk in here, Russo.”
I don’t blink.
“Elena is your daugh-ter.”
Si-lence.
The words drop like a fuck-ing bomb.
The air shifts, thick-en-ing with some-thing dan-ger-ous.
Alessan-dro’s ex-pres-sion barely changes—but I see it. A flicker of some-thing raw. Some-thing lethal.
Shock.
Then—rage.
He leans for-ward, knuck-les whiten-ing against the desk, the smirk wiped clean from his face. His gaze is ra-zor-sharp, a storm brew-ing be-neath the sur-face.
“You’re ly-ing.”
I shake my head. “She has Alessan-dra Ro-mano’s birth-mark.”
His nos-trils flare. His fin-gers twitch.
I press on.
“The Moret-tis stole her from you. She was never Elena Moretti. She was never theirs.”
A slow ex-hale. The leather of his chair creaks as he shifts. The cigar be-tween his fin-gers burns to its end be-fore he crushes it out.
Then—
A low chuckle.
Cold. Deadly.
His gaze lifts, sharp as a blade.
“And what, ex-actly, do you want from me?”
I step closer, my voice un-shak-able.
“I want Is-abella dead.”
The sec-ond I step out-side, the night air slams into me. It does noth-ing to cool the fire rag-ing be-neath my skin.
Luca is al-ready wait-ing by the SUV, his stance rigid. His face is tight, wrong.
He grips my arm be-fore I can speak.
“You need to run.”
My pulse spikes.
Luca’s jaw tight-ens. “An-to-nio rat-ted you out,” he mut-ters. “Nic-colò knows ev-ery-thing.”
He knows.
Fuck.
“He’s not let-ting Elena go,” Luca says, voice edged with ur-gency. “He’s ready to start a war over this.”
I don’t hes-i-tate.
I clamp a hand onto Luca’s arm, my grip tight.
“We get to her first.”
Luca ex-hales sharply. “You re-al-ize we’re about to go up against the en-tire Moretti fam-ily, right?”
I don’t flinch.
I don’t fuck-ing care.
My voice is steady when I speak.
“Then let’s burn it all down.”