Chapter 14 Dante
DANTE
The buzz of my phone rattles against the nightstand, sharp and insistent, slicing through what’s left of the quiet. Katana releases a shuttered breath when I start to pull back, and it’s enough to stop me cold. I curse under my breath, dragging a hand down my face before reaching for the phone.
The vibration won’t stop. It keeps gnawing at the silence, demanding.
The name flashing across the screen freezes my chest for half a beat.
I kill the sound with a swipe of my thumb but don’t answer yet.
Not with Katana watching me like that, her eyes still hazy, her body still trembling from my touch.
“Who is it?”
I don’t answer her straight. My jaw locks as I wrap my hand around the phone.
If Sable’s calling me, my world’s about to tilt sideways. I fed her Serrano’s brother, and in exchange, she gave me a fresh start. That kind of deal never comes clean and I owe her… again.
“Business,” I mutter, my voice clipped, colder than I mean it to be. I drag free of the sheets before she can press harder.
I drag on my boxers and shove my legs into the slacks, then yank the shirt on.
Fastening just enough buttons to pass, though the fabric reeks and clings to my sweat-damp skin that still smells like her.
The floor feels unsteady under my feet as I slip into my shoes.
My back’s to her, muscles strung taut, because I don’t trust myself to turn.
She pushes up on her elbows, and the sound of her breath catching in pain makes me glance despite myself.
“Dante…”
Katana’s trying to sit up, pain tearing through her ribs, and the sound of it cuts me sharper than the phone ever could. She looks wrecked and furious and beautiful all at once, and the worst part is she thinks this is me leaving her.
“Stay here,” I rasp, softer this time, but no less firm. “Get some rest. I’ll handle it.”
Her eyes spear me, daring me to explain, daring me not to walk out. For a second I almost crawl back into that bed, bury myself in her again and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.
But the phone keeps buzzing, insistent, rattling against my palm like a countdown.
The door shuts harder than I mean it to, leaving me with the hollow churn I can’t shake. Knowing damn well nothing good waits on the other end of this call.
For a second I just stand there, my hand still braced on the handle, my jaw clenched tight enough to crack. Part of me wants to go back in, crawl under the sheets, pretend I can have her without the rest of it bleeding in.
“Cross,” I mutter into the line.
“Pier. Ten minutes.” Click.
She never bothers with pleasantries. I pocket my phone and move.
The clubhouse is quiet, shadows stretching long across the scarred wood floors.
My foot steps thud steady against the boards, but my head’s a mess.
By the time I hit the common room, even the quiet hum of the fridge seems too loud.
I push through the door and into the night air.
The cool hits hard, fresh against my skin, grounding me.
I can’t ignore her no matter how badly I want to.
My car is still right where I left it but it's coated in days worth of dust and grime. I’ve been too busy holding my own private vigil for Katana to wake up to give a damn about anything else.
I lean against the driver’s side, shove one hand into my pocket, and fish out the half-crushed pack of smokes I left there.
It’s been four days since I touched one.
My lighter scrapes my fingertips as I strike it, the flame snapping to life and catching the end of the cigarette.
Smoke scorches down my throat on the first drag, bitter heat clawing at my chest.
The cigarette burns low between my fingers, smoke curling in the damp Atlantic air.
It doesn’t do a damn thing to calm the churn in my chest. I flick the butt, sparks skittering across the gravel, and slide inside.
The engine turns over smoothly, headlights sweeping across the lot, catching on the row of bikes.
It feels wrong leaving Katana behind like this but if Sable’s calling me to the pier, it isn’t for nothing.
The drive is short, streets near-deserted, just the ocean wind rattling loose signs and the thrum of tires on cracked asphalt.
My jaw’s locked tight enough to ache, and the silence in the car leaves too much space for memories.
The steering wheel hums under my grip, city lights smearing into neon streaks through the windshield.
The night outside blurs, but my mind sharpens on one image I can’t shake- Sable’s face the first time we met.
And just like that, I’m there again.
The city stinks of rain and piss, steam rising off the grates like the streets are bleeding with me. Rain hammers down hard enough to sting, soaking me through. I used to believe loyalty meant something. I used to think Serrano’s empire was untouchable. But now I know better.
Two months ago, my brother bled out in an alley after a job went bad, everything changed. I was on my knees in the filth, holding him while he choked on his own blood. Victor stood there, watching. He didn’t move, didn’t help. Just lit a cigarette and said, “That’s the cost, Cross.”
That was the moment I stopped being his soldier and started planning his ruin.
Now the rain’s still falling, and I find Sable waiting in a back lot behind a shuttered building, trench coat collar pulled high, an umbrella she doesn’t offer me tilted against the downpour.
Her heels are planted in oil-slick puddles like the grime of New York City can’t touch her.
She doesn’t look like a fed, not the kind they send to play nice.
She looks like someone who’s seen enough bodies dropped to stop keeping count.
“You’re late,” she says. No greeting. No warmth.
“Traffic,” I lie.
“I understand you have something for me.” No small talk, just straight to business. “If your lead pans out, you’ll get your clean slate, Cross. But your debt isn’t wiped clean. Not completely.”
I light a cigarette with shaking hands, ash falling into the puddles at my feet, smoke curling between us like a wall. Her eyes narrow, searching mine for an ulterior motive.
“Andris Serrano is moving product tonight. Brooklyn warehouse, off Kent. Two truck loads. Guard rotation every hour. You get there before two, you’ll have him gift-wrapped.”
“Why now?” she asks, tone flat, but there’s something in her eyes, the first crack in that hard mask.
I feel the rain in my hair and the ache behind my ribs. The truth is bitter in my throat, but I force the words out. “Because Victor Serrano let my brother die in an alley like a stray. Because I’m done bleeding for a man who sees us as expendable.”
For the first time, she really looks at me like she sees me. Not Serrano’s enforcer, not another pawn. Just a man who wants blood any way he can get it.
“We’ll take it from here,” Sable says finally. “But remember, Cross. When I call, you answer. You still owe me.”
I laugh without humor, turning back into the rain. “Story of my fucking life.”
A siren in the distance snaps me back. The steering wheel’s in my hands again, the city stretching out in front of me.
By the time the old pier comes into view, my jaw’s tight enough to ache. The place looks the same as always. Half rotten, boards warped by storms, a busted lamppost stuttering light like it’s got a bad conscience.
Sable’s waiting there, her hands in the pockets of a belted coat, her hair pulled back so tight it gives me a headache just looking at it. She’s still as stone, eyes fixed like she’s been watching me since I turned onto the street.
I kill the engine, step out, my shoes hitting wood that groans under my added weight. The brine stings sharp in my nose, the taste of salt thick enough to chew. I don’t hurry. It’s bad enough she’s got me out here, I’m not giving her that.
“I assume we have you to thank,” she says when I’m close enough, her voice clipped with irritation. “Recovered stolen goods. A handful of arrests pulled from the blood bath. And the victims we dragged out of that hellhole.”
The words land sharp. I keep my face stone, but they cut deep. Alicia barely made it. Katana almost bled out in my arms. My jaw flexes. I stop a foot away, shoving my hands in my pockets.
“With the help of the Royal Harlots MC,” I say. “Consider it one less favor I owe you.”
Sable’s jaw tightens, her lips part like she’s about to argue, then she looks off, fast, toward the black chop of the water.
“What’s that look?” I step closer.
She exhales slowly, pulling her coat tighter. “Didn’t expect you to acknowledge them.”
“That’s not what that was.” My voice goes hard. “You knew they bled for this city, same as me.”
Her gaze flicks up sharp in warning. “Careful who you tie yourself to, Cross.”
The words hang there, heavier than they should. Too pointed. Too personal. She clears her throat, straightening her coat like she didn’t just let something slip. “Serrano’s dead, but the supply lines? They’re not. Someone else stepped in already.”
My jaw clenches. “Who?”
“Cleaner. Corporate. Twice as dangerous.” Her hesitation lingers long enough to piss me off before she finally lets me in. “Isadora Vale. Serrano’s silent backer. Now she’s front and center.”
The lamppost hums, sputters, throwing shadows across her face as she goes on. “Rehab clinics. Shelters. A foundation built on contracts and charity photo ops. And underneath, a machine funnelling girls into the sex trade.”
The boards creak under me as I pace, rage crawling hot up my spine. Katana bleeding out flashes in my head, Serrano sneering as he calls me son.
“So Serrano was nothing but a pawn.”
Sable doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.
“Where is she?”
Her eyes harden. “We don’t know. Yet. But when we do, we won’t stop until we bring her down.”
I laugh, harsh and humorless. “Bring her down with what? Warrants? Subpoenas? She’ll own half the city before you finish the paperwork.”