21. Chapter Twenty-One Dante
Chapter Twenty-One: Dante
I barely recognized the face that stared back at me in the reflection of the sterile, gleaming metal doors. My suit was splattered with blood.
The clatter and beep of machines beyond them were an alien world where Marco fought for his life. My mind reeled, heart thrumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Then he was there—The Don, Enzo Moretti—my father, cutting through the sea of white coats like a dark ship amidst the foam.
His entrance didn’t fit here, among the antiseptic smells and hushed tones of urgent care—but then, when did Enzo Moretti ever belong anywhere but at the head of a table or the front of a war? And yet, he moved with a subtlety that belied his nature, his usual commanding aura tempered by this clinical backdrop. Heads turned; some out of recognition, others sensing the shift in the air—the way birds go silent before a storm.
“Dante. Marco?” His voice reached me, steady as ever, but something in it sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the hospital’s chill.
“Dad,” I managed, my voice a stranger to my ears. I leaned back against the nurses’ station, pretending for all I was worth that my hands weren’t trembling, that the fear gnawing at my insides wasn’t threatening to claw its way out.
He stopped before me, and I saw it in his eyes—the anger mingling with a hint of fear. It was rare, that fear, and it shook me more than any show of rage could have. Those eyes, usually sharp as a hawk’s, now searched mine for answers I didn’t want to give.
“Where is he?” Dad’s jaw clenched, as if bracing for a blow.
“Still in—“ I caught myself. He didn’t need the details. Not yet. “They’re doing everything they can.”
“Damn it, Dante.” He ran a hand over his face, the lines there deeper than I remembered. For a fleeting moment, I saw not the iron-fisted ruler of our criminal empire but a man, a father scared for his son.
“Should’ve been me,” I muttered, more to myself than him. But he heard, he always heard.
“What do you mean?” His tone sharpened, eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. “Explain. All you said when you called was that I needed to get down. I’m here, Dante. And I need to know everything.”
“He got shot,” I blurted out, the words tumbling from me like coins from a busted slot machine. The reality of it felt surreal, like a scene from one of those over-dramatized crime shows Marco loved to mock. “It was supposed to be a simple meet. Just talk.”
“You had a meet without me there?” His eyes widened slightly, a rare show of surprise mixed with the brewing storm of outrage. Memories of his unpredictable temper flashed through my mind, the old fear gnawing at my insides.
“Things got out of hand,” I continued, my throat tightening with each word. “None of it was supposed to go down like this.” I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until it came out in a rush, clouding the air between us.
“Out of hand,” he repeated, voice flat, but his eyes... they drilled into me, demanding the truth I had yet to fully confront myself. He always did this when he was angry, just repeated everything I said until I was stumbling over myself with explanations, until I was incriminating myself.
I nodded, swallowing hard against the lump that had formed there. “Yeah, things got—heated. A disagreement. I thought we had it under control, and then—“ The memory of gunshots echoed in my head, a symphony of chaos I wished I could forget.
“Then what, Dante?” Dad pushed, his patience waning like a candle at the end of its wick.
“Shots were fired.” I felt like a fucking fool, standing there on the verge of falling apart. I knew better than to show weakness, especially in front of him. Especially now.
For a second, his expression turned furious, a storm ready to break. But then, unexpectedly, his hand landed on my shoulder—a touch that held the weight of the world. “Marco is resilient. He always has been,” he said, and for a moment, just a moment, the storm in his eyes eased into something resembling assurance—or maybe hope.
But that quickly turned. “Do they know when he’ll be out?”
“They said it could take a few hours.”
“Okay. Come.” Enzo’s voice was a quiet command, the kind that had shaped my life with its unspoken power. He tilted his head toward the cafe down the hall, not waiting for a response. I followed, each step echoing in the empty corridor, heavy with the weight of the impending confrontation.
The hospital café was an odd place at four in the morning, the fluorescent lights too bright against the dark world outside. Enzo ordered two espressos from the night-shift worker who nodded with tired eyes, oblivious to the gravity of our presence.
We took a table in the corner, away from the few scattered souls seeking solace in caffeine and stale sandwiches. The hum of vending machines filled the silence between us like some dissonant lullaby. My father fixed me with a look that could cut glass, his expectation for answers clear without a word spoken.
I met his gaze, feeling the familiar tug-of-war inside me. The part of me that wanted his approval, the part that longed to step out from under his shadow—they were both there, clashing silently as I waited for him to speak.
“Son,” he finally said, his voice low, “what happened tonight?”
It was the question I’d been dreading, but I knew there was no turning back now. I had to tell him everything…and I knew he wasn’t going to be happy.
I shifted in my seat, the hard plastic chair suddenly feeling like a vise. The espresso arrived, but the bitter scent that wafted from the tiny cup did nothing to settle my nerves. I took a breath, my resolve steeling as I prepared to lay out my plan before him, a plan I’d initiated without his consent.
“I was trying something with the routes,” I said, watching every minute shift on his face, looking for signs of the storm to come. “Thought I could turn some of Caruso’s men.”
“Against Lorenzo Caruso?” His voice cut through the air, sharp as the blade he kept hidden under his finely tailored jacket—a reminder of the man he truly was beneath the exterior of a civilized businessman. The veneer of calm was gone, replaced by an anger edged with disbelief. “Why didn’t you come to me first?”
The disappointment in his eyes stung more than the rebuke itself. I was used to Enzo’s temper, the controlled ferocity of his leadership. But this—this felt personal. I had really wanted to make him proud.
But…I had other things to worry about. Other family to worry about.
My unborn child. The mother of my unborn child.
“Dad, I…” My words were a rare fumble, tripping over each other as they spilled out.
He raised his hand, stopping me mid-sentence, and I clenched my jaw. We both knew this conversation was far from over, but for now, we sat in silence, surrounded by the stark reality of the fluorescent-lit cafe as the night crept on outside.
“Drink your coffee,” he said. “Get your bearings. You look like you’re going to throw up.”
Reluctantly, I took a sip of the espresso, the acrid taste burning my tongue. I welcomed it, claiming it as punishment for the foolhardy decision that had led Marco to lie in that sterile white room fighting for his life.
“So, you attempted to turn Caruso’s men,” Enzo began again. His gaze was steady on me, hardened with decades of running our vast empire. The lines on his face seemed deeper, a stern etching that held years of wisdom and hard decisions. “And then?”
His eyes were locked onto mine, two cold points of assessment in a hardened face. I had seen that look before—when he was about to make a move that would shake the foundations of our world, or when he was weighing the fate of a man who’d just crossed him.
Or when he was about to beat one of us up, when we were kids.
Now, it was aimed at me…it had been so many years, and it still made my blood run cold.
“I tried to make them see reason,” I admitted, my voice low. “I offered them a way out, a chance to do more than just follow orders...a new start away from Caruso’s control.”
“And you expected them to just...switch sides?” His voice was calm and calculated, but the way he drummed his fingers on the table betrayed his agitation.
“They had financial incentive,” I said.
He shook his head. “If you had paid them, they wouldn’t have shot your brother.”
“I was going to pay them. The routes idea had merit. I was still working on it, they just had to give me time, they just…”
“Enough, Dante.” He held up a hand to silence me. His eyes were hardened shards of ice, radiating frigid disappointment. “Your brother lies in a hospital bed because of your reckless actions.”
The words struck me like physical blows, each syllable sending shockwaves of guilt that resonated through my core. I closed my eyes and forced back the waves of remorse threatening to overtake me.
“If you wanted to turn Caruso’s men, you had to make it your first priority,” he said.
“I know, Dad, but…”
“You had to ensure their loyalty, Dante. Greed alone is not enough, especially considering who we’re dealing with.”
His criticisms were like cold bullets straight through my heart—each word a piercing echo of my own guilt. I knew he was right. My plan had been ill-conceived, executed with haste and without proper caution. And Marco paid the price.
“I understand, Dad,” I finally said, my voice nearly a whisper amidst the hum of the vending machines and the distant whir of the hospital’s constant life. “I made a grave mistake.”
He regarded me for a long moment before speaking again, his tone softer now but carrying an immovable weight. “Marco is in there because of you. But he’s also alive because of you. You brought him in on time.” His gaze held mine, unblinking and unrelenting. “That’s the only reason why you’re still sitting here. Now tell me why you made this mistake.”
“Something happened. Personal,” I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
“Personal.” He didn’t ask. He stated it, letting the word hang in the air between us as if it were a dirty secret I had no right to keep.
“Yeah.” I shifted uncomfortably, the seat creaking under my weight. My hands, usually steady and sure, now betrayed me with their slight tremor.
This was not how I wanted him to find out about his grandchild.
“Explain.” It wasn’t a request; it was a command, one that compelled obedience despite my reluctance.
“Jade,” I started, but the rest of the sentence lodged in my throat. This was the moment of truth, where all the cards had to be laid out on the table, yet I hesitated. How could I make him understand something I was still grappling with myself?
“Jade?” His impatience broke through the fa?ade of calm, a rare crack in the Don’s armor. “Who is Jade?”
“Look, I didn’t want to tell you like this.” I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the sweat cling to my scalp. “I’m seeing someone. I’m...it’s serious.”
“Serious,” he echoed back, and I couldn’t read the thoughts swirling behind those steely eyes. I had expected anger, maybe even disappointment, but not this measured silence that stretched between us. But the repetition…the way he used my own words against me…fuck, it made my blood run cold.
“My girlfriend, Jade. Jade’s pregnant,” I blurted out, the words tumbling forth like a confession. “I’m trying to secure something for her. For our baby. Something that won’t be vulnerable to people like Lorenzo Caruso.”
Enzo went still, very still, as if his body had turned to stone. The news seemed to suspend itself in the space around us, charged with an energy that made the very air feel heavy.
“Okay,” he finally said, taking a sip of his coffee before he trained his eyes on me. “When’s the wedding?”