Chapter 41
Dante
T he ride back to the penthouse was a blur of city lights and suffocating silence. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white, the leather creaking under the pressure of my hands. The faint hum of the engine was the only sound, a monotonous drone that did nothing to drown out the chaos in my mind.
I shouldn’t have gone to the wedding. I shou ldn’t have let myself get close to her again. But the moment I saw her on that dance floor, her laughter lighting up the room, her dress clinging to her like it had been tailored by the gods themselves, I’d lost whatever shred of control I had left. She was a magnet, pulling me in even as I knew she’d tear me apart.
And now? Now I’d left her standing in the garden, her eyes filled with a mix of anger and hurt that I couldn’t unsee. I’d walked away, thinking it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do. But the guilt gnawed at me like a rabid dog, tearing into the edges of my resolve.
I didn’t deserve her. I never had. But that didn’t stop the ache in my chest, the hollow, gnawing sensation that came with knowing I’d hurt her. Again.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and I stepped into the penthouse, the familiar scent of leather and wood polish doing little to ground me. The city stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sprawling maze of light and shadow that felt as cold and indifferent as I did. I shrugged off my jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the back of the couch, and made a beeline for the bar.
The whiskey burned as it slid down my throat, the heat spreading through my chest like wildfire. I poured another glass, the amber liquid catching the faint glow of the city lights, and downed it just as quickly. But no amount of alcohol could dull the memory of her voice, the way it had trembled when she’d accused me of running away. The way she’d looked at me, her eyes blazing with defiance even as tears threatened to spill.
You’re the one deciding that this—us—isn’t worth fighting for.
The words echoed in my mind, relentless and unforgiving. She didn’t understand. How could she? She didn’t know what I knew. Didn’t see what I saw. If she did, she’d hate me. She’d hate herself for ever letting me get close. And maybe that would be better. Maybe it would make it easier to let her go.
But the bruises...Christ. The bruises.
I clenched my jaw, my hand tightening around the glass as the memory surfaced. The way her arm had felt under my grip, the way she’d winced when I’d held her too tightly. I hadn’t meant to hurt her. I’d been so consumed by my own anger, my own frustration, that I hadn’t realized how hard I was holding on. I should’ve apologized. I should’ve said something before I walked away. But I hadn’t. And now, the image of those bruises—bruises I’d put there—was seared into my brain.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath, slamming the glass down on the bar with enough force to make the liquor slosh over the rim. The sound echoed through the empty penthouse, a sharp, jarring reminder of just how alone I was.
I grabbed the glass again, my hand trembling as I lifted it, and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the far wall, the pieces scattering like tiny shards of regret across the polished floor. The sound was satisfying in a way that made me hate myself even more.
The door behind me opened with a soft click, and I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Luca and Rafe had a way of showing up when I least wanted them to, like vultures circling a wounded animal.
“Easy, brother,” Luca said, his tone light but laced with caution. “That wall didn’t do anything to you.”
I didn’t respond, my hands braced against the edge of the bar as I stared down at the mess of glass and whiskey pooling on the floor. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, until Rafe finally broke it.
“What do we do now?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual, the weight of the question hanging in the air like a storm cloud.
I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair as I turned to face them. They stood near the entrance, their postures tense, their expressions unreadable. For a moment, I considered brushing them off, telling them to leave, to let me deal with this on my own. But I couldn’t. Not this time.
“There’s something you need to know,” I said finally, my voice low and rough, as if the words themselves were fighting to stay buried. My chest tightened, the weight of what I was about to admit pressing down on me like a vice. Luca and Rafe exchanged a glance, their usual smirks and quips absent, replaced by something more serious. They could sense it—whatever I was about to say wasn’t going to be easy, for me or for them.
“Alright,” Luca said, stepping further into the room, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, though I could see the tension in his shoulders. “We’re listening.”
I turned back to the bar, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and pouring what was left into a fresh glass. My hands were steady now, but only because I was forcing them to be. I took a long sip, the burn doing little to dull the edge of what I was about to reveal.
“The forensic accountant finished the report,” I said, setting the glass down with a deliberate slowness. “I know who’s been skimming the money.”
Rafe let out a low whistle, leaning against the back of the couch. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense. Who is it? One of the lieutenants? Someone in the mid-level ranks?”
“It’s not that simple,” I said, my jaw tightening as I turned to face them. My gaze flicked between them, their expectant expressions only making the words harder to say.
The room went silent, the kind of silence that wasn’t just an absence of sound but a presence all its own. Luca’s smirk faltered, his brows knitting together in confusion, while Rafe straightened, his casual demeanor evaporating in an instant.
“The name on the report...It's Emilia Ricci.”