18. DANTE
EIGHTEEN
DANTE
Clauses. Percentages. Acquisitions. The buzz of a conversation I could ignore.
That wire transfer raised some red flags.
The statute of limitations is still in effect.
You're looking at a potential RICO case.
We can restructure the assets offshore .
The names of the companies, the names of the people.
They blur. They sound the same. Shelf corporations.
Shell companies. Nominee directors. Blind trusts.
More of the same.
I fucking hate reunions.
I look at the skyline of Philadelphia. Glass.
Angles. All sharp and new. Skyscrapers—if you can call them that.
It didn't used to look like this. Back then, it was just the old banks, the brick buildings, the weight of history in stone.
The City Hall was the tallest, with William Penn watching over like some tired saint.
I remember being a kid and hearing the old-timers complain.
They'd spit on the sidewalk and curse the new steel towers that had the audacity to look down on him.
Something cracked after that. I used to like the idea of a place that didn't need to reach for the clouds.
It all feels like a cheap imitation. Too quiet, too sterile.
A place like this could never hold him . Nyx belongs to New York.
God, Nyx. Even here. Even now.
I try to think about anything else. The case, the names, the files on the table. He gets in. That smirk. That fucking laugh.
I imagine what he'd say about this view. I shouldn't. He'd call it soulless, leaning on the glass like he owns it. He'd mock it, the shiny new money and the suits and ties; the boardroom, the bullshit.
Every sentence starts to bend his way.
"You seem distracted, Dante. Everything alright?" Charlotte whispers at my side.
A lawyer, one of the brightest. Smart, blond, pretty. Her eyes linger too much, her voice a bit too soft. It's tempting to entertain it like I did countless times before. The same voice, the same eyes. She could be another distraction, just as empty as all the others.
But Nyx. Nyx with his laugh.
"Just business," I say.
She touches my arm. It's soft. Nyx has soft edges too.
Fuck, why did it have to be him? Why couldn't it have been anyone else? I should have him killed. I should have him shot in the fucking face for this, for being in my head like this. I can't even have a simple reunion with some idiots without thinking of him.
Charlotte whispers again, "Are you sure? You seem..."
I don't want her here. I don't want any of this. I want… something else. Something raw, unpredictable, infuriating. Something that burned.
I pull my arm back and get up. The lawyers around the table go silent.
"I need a smoke," I say.
I leave. No one tries to stop me—no one dares to.
My guards follow. Two of them, always. I go to the parking lot, to the car. I lit a cigarette, lean against the hood, and even the taste of this fucking cigarette reminds me of him—in my office, giving me a Dunhill pack with an adoring smile.
Why him?
The guards take their distance, standing by the doors. They know the rules. They don't come close, don't interrupt.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out.
Luca. I frown. He rarely calls when I'm in meetings.
"Talk."
" Sir, there's been a breach. Security systems are offline. "
My first thought is Nyx. The little shit couldn't just enjoy the game; he had to shatter the board.
But the thought dies. Luca's breathing—heavy, ragged—isn't the sound of a man reporting one of Nyx's infuriating pranks.
And Nyx… Nyx was happy, disgustingly so.
He was twisting me into knots, reveling in the control I exerted over him. This isn't his move.
"What?" I rush him.
" They took out the perimeter guards. They knew the layout, the blind spots. They went straight for the East Wing ."
The East Wing. Nyx's room.
The rage, the frustration—everything burns in an instant. I crush the cigarette between my fingers.
"Who?"
" The cameras were off, sir. We can't identify them. They took the asset."
They're fucking dead.
They're all fucking dead.
"Gather the men," I order the only thing that makes sense. "You tell the whole house—I want these fuckers alive . I will kill every fucking one myself ."
The mansion is in chaos. A kind of chaos I haven't seen since the last great territory war fifteen years ago. But this is different. It's personal . Ambulances wail at the entrance, carrying away bodies, or what's left of them. Four of my men. Four . Too high a price.
Luca, with a graze wound on his arm, curses as one of the trusted doctors finishes a bandage, staining the velvet of the living room sofa with blood.
Hallways are riddled with holes, walls perforated by bullets, and what was Nyx's bedroom door is now just a black hole.
Svetlana waits for me at the entrance to the room.
"Dante!" she exclaims, hurrying towards me. "We've had numerous casualties. Several men were taken down—they were aiming for Hays."
Rage erodes me. Aiming for Hays. For Nyx . The son of a bitch is too important, too valuable an asset to be a direct target. This means the Malakovs know he's our goddamn tactical advantage.
"Sal is gone," she adds. "And the IT team is in chaos. We're trying to figure out where this attack originated."
No. Sal is loyal. Sal has been with us for years. This is a fucking game, a message. They took Nyx and Sal. The head of security. This is a direct blow to my throat.
"His family," I say. "Do we know where they are?"
Svetlana blinks, surprised. "I haven't even started looking into that..."
She is efficient, logical, but she doesn't understand the visceral urgency. Chances are Sal is collateral damage, a way to destabilize us further.
But I don't care if Sal was taken or if he fled . His family is a variable. And variables need to be controlled.
I walk into the room. Luca moves his shoulder with a grunt.
"Luca," I call. "Need some time?"
"Negative, Mr. Volkov," he says immediately. "I'm fine."
The doctor cleans his metal forceps. Luca got stitches. "I would recommend you rest, sir," the doctor says. His voice dies with each word as Luca glares at him.
"Sal's family," I say, ignoring the doctor. "Find them."
He doesn't question it. He knows we need to follow protocol regardless of who disappears. Luca stands, leaving the doctor to shrink into himself, and pulls out his phone, walking out of the mansion. He winces in pain. If he weren't able to be functional, he would have said so. I let him go.
"Does Dmitry know yet?" I ask Svetlana.
She nods. "He's on his way. But the security systems are compromised. We can't track their entry point."
"They knew," I state. "The rat gave them the keys. It doesn't matter. Every one of them will be dismembered until Nyx's whereabouts are revealed."
Rage bubbled inside me. They touched what is mine. That son of a bitch drives me crazy, but he's my problem. No one else has that right.
"I want every camera, every access log, every motion sensor from the last month turned inside out," I order, turning to the men who remained, many injured, but all with their eyes fixed on me. "If there's a single fingerprint, I want it. And if there isn't..."
Svetlana flinches. She understands the implications. Blind retaliation means blood. A lot of it.
"And the Malakovs?" she asks.
"The Malakovs are the main target. They will pay for this. Every property, every street they think they control, every man. They will regret the day they thought they could turn my fucking house upside down and take what's mine."
The air smells of broken plaster, gunpowder, and the sweet, metallic scent of cooling blood.
Blood doesn't stain marble if you clean it fast enough.
My men move like frightened ghosts, cleaning up the mess, collecting bullet casings as if they were seashells on a beach.
They look at the floor, at the walls, anywhere but at the earthquake's epicenter. Me.
They took what is mine.
That phrase is an echo. A goddamn chorus in my head. They took the only thing in this fucked-up world that makes no sense. The only thing that makes me question if the control is real or just a joke.
Svetlana and Dmitry, with their spreadsheets and projections, will never understand that. He's an addiction. He's the stupid duck song that plays in your head in the middle of a board meeting. He's fucking insanity staring back at you with pale eyes and asking for more.
Dmitry arrives. Impeccable, as always, his gray suit without a single crease. He looks like an expensive watch ad that just walked onto the set of a massacre. He analyzes the destruction with a calmness that makes me want to vomit.
"A precise response is needed," he says quietly. "We need to identify the exact cell that did this. A broad retaliation exposes us to an all-out war. Are you hurt, Dante?"
I ignore him. "I don't want a retaliation, Dmitry, I want an extermination ."
"Dante..."
"No," I cut him off. "They entered my territory. They hurt my men, stole my asset, and nobody fucking touches what is mine."
Dmitry stares at me.
"This is about the boy," he states.
The bastard. My younger brother. A fucking suit that costs more than a car. The infuriating calm of someone who solves everything with a phone call. Always him. Ever since we were kids and our father taught us that weakness was a contagious disease, Dmitry learned to read me.