Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bianca
The restaurant bathroom is all marble and gold fixtures, the kind of place where even the soap probably costs more than my weekly grocery budget. I stand at the sink, gripping the edge of the counter, trying to process what just happened at that table.
Dante destroyed that man.
Not with fists or violence, but with words. With information. With the kind of cold, calculated precision that's somehow more terrifying than any physical threat could be.
Ten people dead. Three women. A fourteen-year-old boy.
And Congressman Patterson helped make it happen.
I splash cold water on my wrists. My reflection stares back at me—pale, shaken, trying desperately to look composed.
I thought I understood what Dante was. A mobster. Dangerous. Someone who used money and intimidation to get what he wanted.
But watching him work tonight showed me something else entirely.
He's not just dangerous. He's brilliant. Strategic. A man who collects information like weapons and deploys them with surgical precision.
And I'm trapped in a contract with him.
I dry my hands, square my shoulders, and head for the door. I need to get back to the table.
But when I step into the hallway leading back to the dining room, I hear voices.
Low. Tense.
I freeze, pressed against the wall near the corner.
"—don't have three days!" Patterson's voice is pitched high with panic. "You don't understand what you're asking—"
"I understand perfectly." Dante's voice is soft. Deadly. "You betrayed the Romano family. You got innocent people killed. And now you're going to make it right."
"The Corsettis will know I talked. They'll come after me—"
"Then you should've thought about that before you took their money." A pause. "Or maybe you should've thought about it before you helped them murder a kid."
"I didn't know—"
"You didn't ask." The temperature in Dante's voice drops even further. "You saw dollar signs and decided your conscience was negotiable. That's on you."
"Vitale, please—"
"Friday, Mike. Every piece of information you gave them.
Every contact. Every meeting. Every dollar.
" Footsteps—Dante must be moving closer.
"And if you even think about running, about warning them, about doing anything other than exactly what I've told you to do, I'll make sure Matteo Romano knows you're the reason people are dead. "
Silence.
Then Patterson, his voice barely above a whisper: "He'll kill me."
"Probably." Dante sounds almost sympathetic. Almost. "But if you cooperate, if you give me everything I need, I might be able to avoid mentioning details to him."
"You're asking me to choose which family will kill me."
"I'm giving you more choice than you gave that fourteen-year-old boy."
The cruelty of it—the cold, implacable logic—makes my breath catch.
"I have a family—"
"So did the people you helped kill." Dante's voice hardens. "Your wife, your kids—they'll be fine. We don't touch families. But you? You didn’t care, did you?"
"Jesus Christ—"
"Save it. I'll expect your call by Friday morning. Nine o’clock. If I don't hear from you by nine-fifteen, I make my own call. Understood?"
"Yes." The word comes out broken.
"Good. Now go back to your table, finish your dinner, kiss your wife goodnight. Pretend everything's fine." A pause. "And Mike? Don't make me come looking for you. I hate when people waste my time."
Footsteps. Coming toward me.
I panic, duck back toward the restroom entrance, pressing myself against the wall in the small alcove. My heart is hammering so hard I'm sure they can hear it.
Dante walks past first, his expression perfectly neutral, like he didn't just possibly sentence a man to death. Then Patterson stumbles by, looking gray and shaken, one hand pressed to his chest like he's afraid his heart might give out.
I wait until they're both gone, count to ten, then force myself to walk back to the dining room on legs that feel like they might give out.
My hands are shaking.
I've seen Dante intimidating. Seen him angry. Seen him cold and controlled and impossibly arrogant.
But this? This was something else entirely.
He wasn't just threatening Patterson. He was playing him. Manipulating him. Giving him just enough hope to ensure cooperation while making it clear there was very little escape.
Like a puppeteer pulling strings.
And Patterson never even saw the threads.
When I reach the table, Nancy Patterson is dabbing at her eyes with a napkin, trying to compose herself. Dante is already seated, sipping his water like nothing happened. Patterson sits down heavily, his face ashen.
Dante's eyes meet mine across the table, and something flickers in his expression. Like he knows. Like he can tell exactly where I was and what I heard.
But he says nothing.
The rest of the dinner passes in a blur. Nancy tries to keep up conversation, but her husband barely speaks. Dante is perfectly charming, perfectly composed, asking about their daughter's college plans and complimenting the wine selection.
Like he didn't just orchestrate a man's death between the appetizer and the main course.
I play my part. Smile when I'm supposed to. Nod at the right moments. Laugh at Nancy's story about their vacation in the Hamptons.
But inside, I'm screaming.
Dante Vitale is a man who sees people as pieces on a board, who pulls strings so skillfully that his victims don't even realize they're dancing.
And the most terrifying part is that I’m one of those puppets now.
Tied to him by a contract I signed with shaking hands, my mother's life dangling from the strings he controls.
When dessert finally arrives—some elaborate chocolate thing I can't even taste—I realize I'm clutching my mother's pendant so hard the edges are cutting into my palm.
Dante notices. Of course, he notices. But he says nothing. Just watches me with those cold blue eyes that see everything.
And I'm more afraid of him now than I've ever been.
Because brute force and violence I could maybe understand and anticipate. But this? This calculated manipulation, this chess game he plays with people's lives? I have no defense against that.
No way to fight a man who's always three moves ahead.
No escape from strings I can't even see.