3. Dante
Chapter 3
Dante
I ’m going to murder Rocco Moretti.
It’s actually a very easy decision for me to make. Which I find somewhat surprising considering he’s been my friend, boss, and then companion in crime since I moved to New York five years ago.
The least he could do is actually be here for the meeting instead of spilling my secrets to Teo Vitale, of all people.
I pace up and down the corridor outside Leon’s office, waiting for the door to open and to be summoned inside to plead my case.
Not that I’d need to if Rocco hadn’t gone and opened his fat mouth.
Settling down isn’t exactly my forte. Or desire. Or anything that I think I want for myself. I’d been traveling aimlessly for years before I met Rocco one fateful night in South Africa.
Somehow, I’d come away from that meeting with the worst hangover of my life and a job offer from the Brooklyn mafia. I was offered a job that required me to travel and never settle down and use my very specific skills to bend the law in my hands. I’d never looked back.
Until thirty minutes ago. When I was brutally reminded of what I’d see if I did, in fact, look back.
Emilia-Romagna.
Specifically the town of Montecroce. With its idyllic Italian cobblestone streets overshadowed by the looming Castello di Ferro —the constant towering reminder of the family that rules Modena and its provinces.
Castello di Ferro, the Iron Castle. Home to the Grasso di Ferro (of Italian mafia fame), led by the fearsome matriarch Evelina Grasso herself.
Mia madre.
I’ve not spoken to my mother in five years.
I have no intention of breaking the habit now.
“Dante,” Leon barks, drawing me away from my internal torment and toward his beckoning hand.
I follow him into his office and immediately begin making my case.
“There are a hundred other places we could take her,” I say without preamble. “I have connections all over South Africa. Greece is nice this time of year. I could even take her up to Canada and keep her with the Sicilians for a while.”
Leon-ever-suffering-Natali looks at me as if he’s ready to go straight to blows with me.
I take a step back automatically and begin answering myself on his behalf. “Of course, the Cartel knows about our connections to South Africa and the Sicilians. And the Greeks are incapable of keeping information to themselves.”
Leon begins to massage his temples.
I don’t stop. “It needs to be somewhere secure, somewhere they won’t think to look. Europe is a big place. Give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll find something else.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Leon barks through my barrage of pleading like a freight train. “I need Carmen on the next plane out of JFK, and you are going to make that happen and keep her secure until I need her again.”
The problem with this is that, yes, I know a lot of people. I know a lot of people with places that could secure a perpetual flight risk (and sacrificial virgin, apparently).
But none would be prepared to take me in immediately and not ask questions.
And the war between the Prince’s Guild and the Cartel has been going on far too long for us to be able to afford fucking this up.
I sit down on a seat and help myself to the decanter of whiskey Leon has lying on the table next to it.
The don looks at me in exasperation, but I can’t bring myself to care. It’s slowly beginning to dawn on me that I have no alternative options here.
“What’s in Emilia-Romagna?” Leon asks as he gives in and slides into the seat opposite me.
I take a long drink of whiskey before replying. “My mother.”
Leon, funnily enough, sympathizes with this with a horrified grimace. But I wouldn’t touch his mommy issues with a barge pole, either.
“I’ll have Rocco run comms while you’re out there,” he offers instead by means of comfort. “Hopefully, you won’t be out there long.”
I take in his slouched posture and the dark circles under his eyes and find myself grateful that the weight of the war isn’t on my shoulders. “You’ll finish this, boss, no doubt about it.”
He smirks. It’s a tired expression, but it meets his eyes. “Get the princess out of here for me?”
“Yeah,” I say, resigning myself to my fate. “Whatever it takes.”
I go to stand, downing the rest of my glass as I go to leave, only to be stopped by Leon on my way out.
“I trust you’ll keep to your word?”
I pause, turning to give him a confused look.
“You won’t touch her. If the Cartel needs her to remain…virtuous,” he scrunches his nose in distaste. “I need her to come back in one piece.”
“It’s gross, right? It’s not just me. How would they even be able to tell?”
Leon hums his agreement. “But it’s important to them, so it’s important to us. Nothing can happen to her.”
“I know.”
“Dante,” he gives me a pointed look.
A pointed look that I immediately take offense to. “I’m not a fucking animal.”
“I seem to recall that time at the Inferno when you were distracted by not one but two blondes–”
“All right, stop,” I hiss in frustration. “Look, I promise you I won’t. Even if I wanted to…which, to be absolutely clear, I don’t…my mother wouldn’t allow it.”
Leon gives me a sympathetic look. “She’s not Catholic, is she?”
“Worse,” I swallow. “She wants me married.”
To my surprise, Leon barks out a laugh that is long and low and seemingly desperately needed. By the time he’s recovered, he’s wiping a tear from his eye. “There are worse things, my friend.”
“Easy for you to say. Mia almost shot Alex earlier. Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
His jovial demeanor immediately evaporates into thin air. “Okay, and you’re out.”
I mentally chastise myself for forgetting the number one rule in this line of work as I make my hasty retreat.
* * *
I’ve almost finished packing by the time I gather my courage enough to call.
It would be a stretch to call this hotel room “home”, but I’ve become quite fond of it these last few weeks. It’s strange to see the space bare of my possessions—all of which fit into one neat suitcase now lying on the bed.
There’s no point taking my weapons with me. For one, it’ll be a headache getting through airport security, and I already had to call in three separate favors to secure a private plane. For another, there’s a literal armory in the Castello de Grasso .
I just need to let them know that I’ll be arriving soon to utilize it.
With a sigh, I hit the call button. My leg bounces as I perch on the end of my bed.
It’s been five years. She has every right to have disowned me by now. That is if she’d wanted to.
If I wasn’t her only son, I daresay she would have done it already.
“ Amore mio? ”
And suddenly, I’m nineteen again, and she’s begging me to stay.
“Hi, mom.”
I hear her gasp, and it takes everything I have not to break apart at the sound. I can picture it perfectly; she’s probably clutching at her chest. Fingers twitch as she struggles to find a purchase. Eyes dart around the room in excitement, looking for someone to share it with her.
“Dante?”
“Yeah.”
“My son, Dante Grasso.”
I already hate where this is going. “That’s me.”
“Impossible,” she tuts with such Italian exasperation it would warm my soul if it wasn’t at my expense. “My son is dead. This is the only reason he has not called me in cinque anni .”
I wince at that. “Technically, it’s only been four years and nine months.”
I have to pull the phone away from my ear to save myself from the sheer volume of her curses.
“You cannot do this to me. I am your mother, I have been sick with worry. Sick. You ungrateful boy, I have missed you so. You used to call me wherever you were but you go to America and what are we? Eh? Not worth your time anymore? I’ve been sick, Dante.”
“Have you actually been sick, or are you being dramatic?”
“How would you know!”sShe shrieks. “You do not care to call. You do not ask. I could be dead.”
I pinch at the bridge of my nose in an attempt to hold back the incoming migraine.
“I’m calling because I have a situation, and I need you to help me without asking any questions until I arrive,” I say firmly, cutting off her imminent rant.
The line suddenly goes very quiet.
“You will arrive? Where?” Her tone is suddenly quite chilling. Gone is my mother, arrived is the matriarch.
“Montecroce.”
“When?”
“About ten hours from now. Maybe more,” I say, double-checking the flight times. We need to move quickly if we’re going to make it in time.
There’s more silence that draws out far too long.
“You expect me not to ask questions? You have not been home in a decade, and now…do you bring danger to our door? This is your home, your birthright. Tell me you would not be so foolish.”
We don’t have time for this. “Listen to me carefully. I am coming whether you are prepared for my arrival or not.”
“You will not pass the city gates without my command.”
She’s still the don, still in control. No matter my birthright, she still holds the power.
I grit my teeth. “There is no danger. Only a hostage.”
“ Per l’amor del cielo! For heaven’s sake. This is dangerous. We want no part in your American schemes.”
Time is ticking away.
“What do you want?” I say, throwing myself open and vulnerable. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”
She wastes no time. “You will stay with me. For good, this time.”
“ Madre. ”
“You said you will do whatever it takes.”
Tick tock. I groan to myself. “I can’t promise you that. This situation is complicated. I will need to finish the job before I can commit to anything.”
“Then you will get engaged while you are here, and you shall return once the situation is no longer complicated.”
Fuck.
“Is there nothing else? Madre, I have money, I have connections. I can get you anything you want in the world. Please don’t do this to me.”
“What I want is for my son to be happy.”
“I am happy!”
“...and for him to take his rightful place as the don of the Grasso de Ferro. I am old, amore mio. Please give me this comfort. I will host you and your hostage without question. You have my word.”
And there it is, the perfect solution to an impossible situation. All at the expense of my un-marital bliss.
We’re late. Leon needs me. What choice do I have?
“Then you have mine,” I say bitterly. “I will see you in ten hours.”
I hang up the phone without another word and begin racing down the stairs.
With every step, I tread deeper and deeper into my own dreadful despair.
The only thing that keeps the fire warm in my veins, the thing that keeps me pushing forward to my inevitable fate, is my anger.
The manifestation of which sits in the back of the car parked outside, blindfolded and radiating a particular brand of hatred of her own.
As I get behind the wheel and look in the rearview mirror, something as hot as molten lava settles in my stomach.
I have never hated anyone more than Carmen Rubio.