Chapter 4 Dante
North Carolina, USA
“You sound… impressed,” Jason drawls, his shaky hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, black as a raven’s wing. The liquid swirls against the light ceramic, staining it a dark brown and leaving behind scattered sandy dots.
I lean back against the wall, a shrug rolling over my shoulders.
Exhaustion crashes into me like a wave, soaking every inch of my body in its sweet, numbing heaviness.
The flight from Mexico was brutal, especially with insomnia gnawing at my brain.
I swear I’m already seeing hallucinations flicker at the edges of my vision.
“One day, it’s going to kill you,” I say, ignoring his statement.
Jason frowns, a crease cutting deep between his thick brows as his cerulean gaze snaps to mine. I nod toward the mug in his hands, and once he realizes it, he lets out a chuckle.
“Die from a caffeine overdose?” he asks, skeptical, like the very idea is absurd. “You’re funny, Dante. It wouldn’t hurt to fix yourself a cup or two—you look like shit.” His voice holds a sharp edge, and even through the fog of my sleep-deprived mind, I get it. I know why he’s annoyed.
Jason’s my partner—one of the most relentless, loyal people I’ve ever crossed paths with. He’s been at my side since the moment my parents died.
That day carved a line straight through my life. At nineteen, everything I thought mattered dissolved, fading into a distant, useless haze. In its place rose one thing—sharp, blinding, all-consuming.
A thirst for revenge. I swore I’d hunt down the people who took them from me and deliver justice in whatever shape it demanded, no matter how dark or bloody the path became.
Nine years have passed, and not once have I wavered—neither in myself nor in the plan I set in motion.
Life has a way of fracturing in an instant.
I remember how the vehicle spun wildly, my father fighting the wheel with every ounce of strength. Then two gunshots cracked through the air, and in a single heartbeat, they were ripped from my world, leaving nothing but silence and the echo of a life I would never get back.
I’ve often wondered why the assassin never shot me, too. But considering the way our car swerved and flipped without anyone driving it, it’s clear they thought I wouldn’t make it.
Their mistake.
With some money, a little knowledge, and Jason at my side, we built something—our own group. One that hunts people like Cane and Estella. But the organization they work for… that was harder to find. Harder to trace. Part of me still can’t believe we managed to connect the dots.
It’s a global web—an international syndicate run by wealthy bastards who pull strings from the shadows.
We’ve seen them orchestrate assassinations of every kind, spark political chaos, and destabilize governments—always for their own shifting, selfish agendas.
Reaching the real leaders, the ones at the very top, has proven nearly impossible.
They hide behind layers upon layers of intermediaries, false identities, and disposable pawns.
After years of tracking, studying, building a false identity, and interrogating anyone remotely tied to them, we’ve finally managed to get in. We’re closer than ever.
“Don’t mistake my reaction for anything stupid,” I finally say, shattering what feels like a lifetime of silence.
Jason takes another sip of his coffee, sets the cup down, and starts flipping through the papers scattered across the table. After a moment, he lifts his hands in surrender.
“Just observing,” he says. “You seem pretty impressed with her. The kind of impressed that borders on—”
“No.” The single word slices through the air, sharp and unwavering, reverberating from deep in my throat like a blade drawn from its sheath. “What the fuck, Jason?”
He shrugs. “Well, for starters, we were expecting you to meet a man. The fact that she’s a woman? That complicates things.”
A dry chuckle slips past my lips, catching him off guard.
He probably assumes that if I linger around a woman long enough, some attachment will form, some thread of feeling.
After all, it’s been years since I’ve let anyone close—years without a serious relationship, without letting anyone see past the walls I’ve built.
“She’s already seen you half-naked, man. That’s—”
“Ridiculous,” I snap, cutting him off again. I hate interrupting, but this conversation is fucking absurd.
I’m not built for a relationship—not with the life I’ve carved out for myself.
It wouldn’t be fair to anyone reckless enough to care about a man like me.
I’ve wandered too close to death too many times to pretend this path leads anywhere but the same dead end.
One day, my luck will snap like a frayed wire.
And honestly? That might be the best outcome, once I finish what I started.
Because I’m running on fumes now, burned down to the final flicker. And when all of this is finally over, I can’t picture a future waiting for me on the other side.
Just silence.
“You know me, Jason,” I say, rubbing a hand over my stubbled jaw and squinting against the sterile overhead lighting that’s doing my tired eyes no favors. “I’m curious about her only because she’s useful. That’s all.”
“Curious about who?” a light voice says from behind.
We both pivot as Lucia glides into the room, the soft rustle of her jacket following each step toward Jason’s desk. She sets a paper bag onto the surface, and a warm, sweet scent curls into the air, immediately reminding me how hollow my stomach feels.
“Hey, Dante,” she says, her smile spreading slowly across her nude-colored lips—bright and deliberate. “How did it go?”
I can’t stop the heavy exhale that slips out the moment her question lands. She freezes, her eyes locking onto mine, wide, bright and instantly alert as she senses something is off.
Yeah. This is another reason why I say I’m not built for relationships. I never process things before they happen; I only realize the consequences after, when it’s too late to fix anything.
“Don’t mind him, Lucia,” Jason interjects smoothly, stepping in like a well-timed lifeline. “He’s just tired.”
“Oh. Well…” she trails off, tucking a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. She takes a small step closer, her sneakers thudding gently against the floor. “I brought cinnamon rolls. Thought you’d be tired after everything.”
That’s Lucia—always thoughtful. Always noticing the things no one else would. She brings me food, drinks, cigarettes—little comforts just because she thinks they might help. She does it without expectation, without pushing. She’s soft in a way that doesn’t weaken her.
She tends to hover in the background, quiet and unassuming, but when the job requires tracking down people who’d rather stay invisible, she becomes a force of nature. Lucia can slip into conversations, slide past defenses, and nestle herself into the blind spots people don’t even realize they have.
If it were up to me, I’d probably lose patience within minutes and get rid of anyone who so much as breathed suspiciously.
Jason and Lucia are what keep this whole thing from falling apart. Jason’s a genius at digging into the darkest corners of the internet, unearthing secrets no one wants found. Lucia, on the other hand, gets people to hand their secrets over willingly—before they even realize what they’ve done.
And I know she feels something for me. It’s deeper than work, always has been.
Even after I made it perfectly clear that I’m not interested, she never stepped back.
Never snapped. Never lashed out. She just kept giving me the same quiet, maddeningly infuriating responses, like a challenge I can’t quite refuse.
She kept insisting she wanted to fix me, as if she could see past all the layers I’ve built around myself. But the truth is, I never asked to be fixed.
It’s okay, Dante. I’m not forcing anything or prying. I’m just here. I like doing nice things for you. I can see you’re hiding, and I want to see what’s behind the curtain. I want to help you, to fix it, to make you happier.
Jason calls me a fucking idiot, and I get it. Lucia is brilliant, kind, captivating in that haunting, timeless way—like she walked straight out of a Poe poem. But we both know the truth. None of this is her problem. It’s mine.
“Thank you, Lucia,” I mutter, clipped and curt. With Estella, I could force a trace of softness into my tone, a hint of something almost human, but right now, not even that small effort surfaces.
I catch it every time—the subtle flicker in her eyes whenever I pull away, the way her expression stiffens, porcelain skin tightening as if she’s holding back a flood of unspoken emotion. She fights to keep it hidden, to mask the pull she feels, but it never escapes me.
Jason, ever the tension-slayer, clearly senses the awkwardness hanging in the air. He reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a cinnamon roll. “Still can’t believe a big, scary man like you likes these things,” he teases. “If I told anyone, they’d never believe me.”
I snatch the roll from his hand. “They’re delicious. And look who’s talking. Should I mention your obsession with strawberry donuts?”
He groans. “Okay, fine… You got me.”
A spark of mischief ignites within me, and for some inexplicable reason—probably the memory of every joke Estella has thrown my way—I feel the urge to return the favor.
“A grown-ass man,” I begin, letting the words roll off my tongue with deliberate charm, “who downs gallons of pitch-black coffee but somehow sneaks in pink-glazed donuts on the side…”
“I’m going to kill you one day,” Jason cuts in, voice rising just enough to match his mock outrage. “And when I do, don’t act surprised.”
“Fair enough.”
He leans forward, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm against the thick stack of papers sprawled across the table—intel, timelines, targets, all neatly organized and ominous in their implication.
“But for now,” he continues, his voice sharpening with gravity, “pull your head out of the clouds. Focus on the job, Dante.”
“I’m capable,” I declare without hesitation.
My gaze slides upward to the map hanging above the table, locking on a tangled web of red threads snaking between cities, names, and timelines, a chaotic masterpiece of everything we’ve uncovered so far. I take it in, letting the scope of it settle around me.
I am capable. And nothing—absolutely nothing—will go wrong this time, or any time in the future.