2. Dante #2
My hand wraps around her throat, light enough not to hurt, firm enough to own her for this moment.
"I want to see you break," I whisper, not to her, but to the woman in my mind.
My release crests, heat building fast in my spine, in my gut, in the base of my skull.
My hips snap harder, faster, my hand tightening just slightly.
I keep my eyes shut, riding the image of Gianna's lips parted in shock, her name tattooed in the rhythm of my pulse.
The girl breaks first, her body seizing around me in rhythmic, fluttering pulses as she comes with a high, shuddering whimper that melts into the pillows.
Her cunt tightens with exquisite desperation, the slick clench of her aftershock coaxing the edge from my spine like a match dragged across stone.
I draw out fast, one hand gripping her hip to steady the tremble in her legs and spill across the curve of her ass in thick, hot stripes.
The girl tries to speak, but I lift a hand without looking at her.
"Not a word."
She quiets.
I step back into my trousers, buttoning them slowly as I watch her in the gilded mirror—chest rising in uneven rhythm, thighs still trembling, lips swollen from too much pleasure and too little control.
I reach into the inside pocket of my coat and pull out a clipped stack of bills.
Neat.
New.
My driver folds them that way.
I drop the stack on the velvet stool beside the bed, not bothering to count.
"Clean yourself up," I say, brushing my sleeves smooth, my voice back to the cool, clean timbre that makes men underestimate me.
I don’t wait for her answer, and step out into the perfumed hallway.
Mirella is where she always is, on a throne of crimson leather behind a beaded curtain.
Her hair is silver and coiled, pinned in a style two decades out of fashion but still regal.
She’s wearing pearls with her robe again, the thick strands looped across her collarbones like a woman who’s never bowed to anyone.
"Dante," she says with a smile that curls slow and sharp. "You look like sin well-spent."
I lean in and kiss her cheek.
Her skin smells like gardenia and smoke.
"You always keep the lighting low in there," I murmur. "Can’t decide if it’s mercy or marketing."
"It’s preservation," she replies, drawing the cigarette holder from her lips. "For the fantasy, and for my nerves. You men break so many things when you’re allowed to see clearly."
I chuckle, pulling out my wallet and handing her a folded envelope.
Inside is the usual: her share, a few signed forms, and a small square of clean paper with the name of someone she asked me to remove two months ago.
Mirella hums, satisfied, and slots the envelope into a locked drawer beneath the desk.
Then she opens her mouth to speak again, and this time, her voice isn’t teasing me.
"I heard a name tonight," she says, then pauses for a breath. "Someone asked about renting the small girls again."
"New client?" I ask.
"Old one. Disguised in new manners. He says he wants ‘entertainers under sixteen’. Claims it’s for modeling, but you and I both know what that means."
This won’t be happening, not while the Salvatores rule this city.
"Give me his name."
She nods toward the drawer.
"It’s in there. Along with two others who didn’t flinch when he said it."
I take a slow breath.
Mirella’s girls are women.
Adults, trained, protected.
Sex work is a trade, whether society wants to admit it or not.
But children—that is not business.
That is a sickness, and I have never tolerated disease within my walls.
"He’ll be dealt with," I say. "Quietly, but thoroughly."
She nods, watching me carefully.
"You’re not like your brothers," she says. "Not always better. Not always worse. But different."
"I don’t need to be better," I reply, reaching for my coat. "I just need to be the last one standing."
I get out, get into my car, and drive to the barracks.
The girl’s moans are gone from my mind.
The scent of sex, of sweat, of heat, all of it already fading beneath the throb building low in my skull.
Rage is not loud for me.
It is cold and quiet with a kind of clarity that few are gifted with and fewer survive.
The roads stretch empty ahead, the streetlights cutting shadows into clean blades.
The further I get from the city center, the more the world narrows to instinct.
The compound I took note of in Mirella’s file is tucked in the hills where cell towers falter and there are no nosy neighbors for miles at a stretch.
The main gate is rusted, half-shut, with a single guard posted who looks like he’s never seen anything worse than a drunk smuggler.
His hand is already on his gun when I step out of the car, but he doesn’t have time to draw it.
Two shots.
One in the leg, one in the throat.
Quick and neat.
The door groans as I shove it open, the compound yawning before me like a dead thing dragged from the sea.
Corrugated metal walls, stacked crates, the scent of piss and mildew thick in the air.
There’s a dim bulb swinging above the doorway to what looks like the storage shed.
I follow the sound of voices.
Inside, there are four men with gold chains and stained shirts, laughing over a box of cheap liquor.
One has a tablet open, flicking through what looks like a catalog.
I don't give them time to process the sound of the door.
I move like water, like poison poured from a bottle.
Two go down before they even reach for their guns.
The third gets a shot off that punches into the wall beside me, but he’s too slow to reload.
I catch him by the neck and drive his head into the concrete, once, twice, until the only sound left is the rasp of breath against broken teeth.
The last one runs.
I follow, boots echoing in the hallway, the stink of fear blooming in his wake.
He tries to lock himself in the far room, but the door’s old, the bolt too rusted.
I kick it open and drag him out by the collar of his shirt.
"Please," he stammers, face wet with sweat, with piss, with whatever dignity he has left. "I didn’t know. I was just doing what I was told."
"They always say that," I murmur, almost gently.
He cries out before I even fire.
I don’t go for the kill. I put a bullet through his kneecap, clean, so that he can’t run.
He’ll be needed to answer the questions that’ll come later.
Job done, I move through the building slowly.
The layout is simple and crude, with corrugated walls sectioning off rooms no larger than horse stalls, some padlocked, some half-ajar.
The deeper I go, the stronger the stench becomes: mildew and rot, old food, waste.
In the dimness, the concrete beneath my boots is cracked and damp, littered with discarded clothing and wrappers.
I pass one room filled with rusting cots, thin blankets thrown over foam slabs that have long since given up their shape.
A single bulb flickers overhead, casting shadows in jagged slices.
Another room holds the remnants of makeshift living: plastic water jugs stacked in the corner, tin plates covered with dried rice, a pair of worn sneakers tucked beneath a stained pillow.
But there’s no one here. I keep moving, checking behind every door, my grip steady on the handle of my gun.
Then I find the last door, bolted from the outside.
A heavy chain is looped through the handle, the kind used for storage containers, not people. I don't waste time with keys.
One clean shot blows the lock apart, and the sound rings through the compound like a warning.
The door creaks open.
It takes my eyes a second to adjust.
The room is dim, lit only by a narrow strip of light from a broken vent.
Along the far wall is a wire cage, bolted to the floor, its door twisted slightly from where someone tried to force it open.
And inside—seventeen girls.
Maybe more.
I count quickly, by instinct, but I don’t linger.
They are young, some no older than fifteen, most wearing oversized hoodies or cotton nightgowns that hang off thin shoulders.
Hair hacked unevenly, arms bruised, eyes that don't blink.
Most of them don’t speak.
One girl whispers something in Ukrainian I don’t catch, and another starts to cry.
I crouch, hands out where they can see them.
"You’re safe now," I whisper, like I’m speaking to a wild animal I don’t want to spook. "You’re leaving. All of you."
I pull out my phone and dial a number I only use when I don’t want questions.
Captain Giuliani answers on the second ring. "Got a cleanup for you," I say. "Seventeen girls. Some underage. East port side. You know the warehouse."
A long silence.
Then, "Do I want to know what’s still breathing?"
"One man. Left leg. No ID. He’ll talk."
"Standard file?"
"Standard file," I confirm.
It means no press.
No paperwork.
The precinct will call it a raid tipped off by an anonymous source.
The girls will be "liberated".
The ones without papers will be passed through a vetted pipeline I arranged two years ago—real documents, real names, real care.
Valentina helped fund the shelter herself.
The public will never hear about it, but the girls will live.
By the time I finish my sweep, Giuliani’s men are outside, plainclothes with real badges and clean records.
They take the girls one by one, wrap them in blankets, hand them bottled water and soft words.
The man I shot is hauled into a car without ceremony.
The bodies are bagged.
I sign nothing.
I linger long enough to see the cage dismantled.
Then I douse the rest of the compound in gasoline.
Crates. Mattresses. Paperwork.
Anything that could ever be touched by this filth.
The matchbook I toss catches fast.
Flame eats through the rot in seconds, climbing into the rafters like a verdict.
Smoke billows black and choking into the sky.
I watch the roof begin to collapse, one steel beam at a time, until the entire structure groans and folds into itself.
There is no need to leave a calling card.
Those who ran this place will know who did it.
And they will know why.
Back in the car, I roll down the window and let the smoke trail after me like incense.
My hands are steady on the wheel.
My shirt is stained, my breath even.
I may fuck.
I may gamble.
I may drink myself stupid some nights and ruin men just for the satisfaction of watching them break.
But no child will ever be touched on my watch.
No girl who should be at school will be sold like she’s nothing but meat.
As I pull onto the road home, the first streaks of pale blue begin to creep into the sky.
The city is stirring behind me, slow and hungry, and even after everything that has played out tonight, Gianna Rossi's face haunts me, her defiant eyes and mocking smile etched into my memory.
No matter how many women I take to bed, none of them can erase her from my thoughts.
Back at the Salvatore estate, I hand my keys to the valet and stride through the marble foyer, the polished floors reflecting the crystal chandeliers above.
A butler approaches, his demeanor as stiff as his starched collar. "Signore Dante, your brother awaits you in the study."
I suppress a sigh, knowing that Luca's summons are rarely trivial.
The study is a sanctum of dark wood and leather, the air thick with the scent of aged cigars and old money.
Luca sits behind a massive mahogany desk, his posture rigid, eyes sharp.
"Dante," he begins, his voice devoid of warmth. "Tomorrow, you will meet with the Rossis."
I raise an eyebrow, feigning surprise.
"The Rossis? I thought that was your thing. Or are you finally beginning to trust me?"
Luca's brow lifts.
"You'll assess their operations, ensure they're upholding their end of the bargain."
I lean back in the leather chair, a smirk playing on my lips.
"And if they're not?"
Luca's expression remains impassive.
"Then we cut them loose."
It wouldn’t do to show just how much the mere thought of seeing Gianna again sharpens my focus, and makes anticipation curl hot and tight in my gut.
So, I clench my fists behind my back, jaw loose, posture lazy, and let my voice stay smooth. "Understood."
Luca dismisses me with a nod.
I turn and stride out, closing the door softly behind me.
Taking the hallway, I step out into the balcony, taking slow breaths.
Inside, I’m already unraveling the possibilities.
Tomorrow, Gianna Rossi will sit across from me in some godforsaken conference room, pretending this is all routine.
It won’t be.
I’m not coming to audit numbers.
I’m coming to test the edge of her composure, to see how close I can press without her flinching, to find out if that mouth tastes as sharp as it speaks.
She wants control.
I want to break it, piece by careful piece.
Game on.