Chapter 18 Dante
DANTE
The warehouse reeks of oil, dust, and salt—the river’s only a hundred yards away, and everything in this part of the city feels damp.
I walk the length of the loading dock, checking the padlocks, eyeing the stacks of crates against the far wall.
My guys work quietly, efficiently; they know the stakes next week, and they know I’m not in the mood for mistakes.
Outside, the sky’s the color of dirty steel, and the buzz of forklifts echoes off corrugated walls. I take a slow drag off my cigarette, exhale into the mid-morning chill, and wait.
I don’t let my mind wander to Adriana, not here. Not when the work demands all my attention.
The crates for next week’s run are lined up, every lock checked twice. My men do a head count of every truck that comes in, no exceptions.
Remik Sokolov’s car rolls up slow, his driver scanning for threats even after the gate’s been cleared. Remik’s not the kind of man who trusts easily, and in this business, that’s called survival.
He steps out—broad-shouldered, dark coat, face like he’s never learned to smile. “Dante Volkov,” he says, voice cold as January. “Always a pleasure to do real business.”
I grunt, leading him through the side door into my office.
“You’re early, Dante,” he says, accent as thick as ever. “Did I keep you waiting?”
“You’re late,” I reply, but without heat. We both know how this dance works.
We hole up in my temporary office—just a battered desk, two chairs, and an electric heater that barely works. We talk logistics first—port schedules, inspectors who need a little encouragement, cargo manifests with just enough truth in them to pass a casual look.
When the talk drifts to “side business,” I cut him off. “No girls, Remik. I don’t move flesh. If anyone tries to bring that shit through my docks, the deal is off. I’ll torch the whole shipment myself.”
Remik grins, almost admiring. “Your father never cared about those lines. Money was money.”
“I’m not Sergei Volkov,” I say, staring him down.
He just laughs, shrugs like he’s above being insulted. “You make your rules. Just don’t forget whose city you’re in.”
I hold his stare. “I don’t forget.”
“I thought we were friends,” he says.
“We are,” I say.
Remik dusts a fleck of ash from his sleeve, casual as a cat.
“Speaking of remembering—nice little gathering the other night. Maksim’s family does love a room full of mirrors and witnesses.
” He tilts his head. “I saw your new wife there. Hard to miss the…red dress. Loud, but not doing her any favors.”
My jaw ticks. “Careful.”
“Relax,” he drawls. “I’m not questioning your taste—just your judgment.
” His mouth quirks. “And I’m not talking out of turn either.
I was one of Serrano’s closest partners.
I know the faces that drifted through his orbit.
” He taps his temple. “Hers? I’ve seen it twice. The party was the second time.”
I go still. “Where was the first?”
“Chicago. Serrano’s club. Week before the feds peeled him off the floor.” He doesn’t blink. “She wasn’t there for fun.”
The room tightens around us. “You’re sure.”
“Dante, I don’t confuse faces.” He taps his temple. “I thought maybe she was tagging along for a thrill, but she looked like someone with a taste for trouble. Or maybe someone who doesn’t know when she’s out of her depth.”
He lets the silence stretch, studying me for a reaction.
“All I’m saying, Dante, is not every woman knows what lines not to cross.
Sometimes you bring someone home and you never really know what you’ve got until she finds a way to embarrass you.
That’s how Serrano ended up with half the feds in his books—too many pretty faces in the wrong rooms, getting noticed. ”
He stands, brushing down his coat. “Port papers, Tuesday. And if you’re smart, keep your wife out of places that don’t suit her. No need to attract the wrong kind of attention. Some men don’t like surprises.”
He leaves me with that thought, and the taste of old distrust in my mouth.
Remik’s words stick with me long after he’s gone, like grit under my tongue.
I drive back to the city with the radio off, knuckles white on the wheel, mind spinning through every look, every detail he threw at me about Adriana.
Out of place. Awkward. Not knowing her role. Some men don’t like surprises.
Fuck him for saying it. Fuck me for listening.
By the time I’m home, my mood’s gone sour as old whiskey. I scroll through my phone, type a terse message to Oleg: Where are you? What’s Adriana doing?
Oleg replies quick, always the soldier: Stopped at the church she used to go to. Just a few minutes. Now at her family’s house. Everything fine.
I stare at the screen, the word church circling in my head. Why would she stop there? For who? For what?
Remik’s words echo—you never know what you’ve got until she finds a way to embarrass you. My jaw clenches. Was Adriana praying for something? Meeting someone? Looking for answers?
It shouldn’t bother me this much. But it does. I toss my phone onto the table, stand in the middle of the room, and try to shake off the feeling that I’m missing something big, something that’s been right in front of me all along.
Suddenly, I’m not so sure who I’m really trying to protect—her, or myself.
I pace the length of my office, hands shoved in my pockets, every muscle tight.
She’s never talked much about faith. Never asked for a ride to Sunday service, not even to play the part for my family. Why today?
I scroll back through Oleg’s message, searching for anything that feels off. Just a few minutes. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.
Remik’s voice needles in my head: Sometimes you bring someone home and you never really know what you’ve got…
A sick, restless energy claws at me. I send another message to Oleg: Did she talk to anyone? Anyone approach her?
His answer comes back, careful as ever: No one except an old nun. No one else close. She lit a candle, spoke a few words, nothing more.
It doesn’t settle me. If anything, it puts me on edge.
Outside, the streetlights flicker on, but the silence inside the house feels anything but peaceful. My jaw aches from clenching it all afternoon. The staff keep their distance; even the old dog in the kitchen flinches when I walk by.
I pace from room to room, never settling. I try to read the same report three times and still can’t remember a word. I end up in the library, staring at nothing, the drink in my hand forgotten.
Sometime after sunset, Liam shows up, his hair still damp from a shower, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He doesn’t bother knocking—he never does. He finds me at the sideboard, pouring another drink I don’t need.
“You’ve been a bastard all day,” he says, voice casual but his eyes sharp as a knife. “Yelling at the dog, snapping at everyone else, glowering like it’s a full-time job.”
I toss back the whiskey, set the glass down too hard. “You want to be next?”
Liam just grins, sinks into the old leather armchair across from me. “If you’re trying to scare me, you’ll have to do better. You want to talk about it or just keep brooding like some haunted widower?”
I glare at him, but it’s half-hearted. The tension in my chest is too raw to spit out. “People keep sticking their noses where they don’t belong,” I mutter, not looking at him. “And I can’t figure out if that includes my own wife.”
He whistles, low. “That’s a new one. You think she’s got secrets?”
I shrug, but it’s more of a shudder. “Don’t you think everyone does?”
He laughs, softer this time, eyes bright. “You’re not yourself, Dante. That girl’s under your skin.”
I ignore him, but my face feels hot. The truth is ugly and obvious, even to me. I’ve been wound so tight all day I can barely breathe.
The front door clicks. Soft, unmistakable—the delicate sound of heels on marble. My heart stutters in my chest.
Liam smirks, eyes flicking to the hallway. “Speak of the devil.” He gets up, pats my shoulder with a knowing squeeze. “Try not to bite her head off. Or do. Your call.”
He disappears as Adriana’s silhouette appears in the doorway, hair mussed, cheeks flushed from the cold night air. I straighten before I even think about it, running a hand through my hair and trying to swallow down the bitterness.
She steps in, meets my gaze. For the first time all day, my pulse slows. The ache in my jaw eases. Even my anger feels suddenly foolish and thin, outshined by the way she looks at me—like she knows, and like maybe, just maybe, she’s missed me too.
God help me, but all she has to do is walk into a room and the whole day rewrites itself.
She stands just inside the doorway, one hand still on the knob like she’s not sure whether she’s coming or going.
The light from the hallway catches in her hair, turns the edges gold.
For a second, we just look at each other.
I’m trying to remember every reason I was angry. She’s searching my face for a welcome.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how I must look—rumpled, tense, two buttons undone at my collar. I want to say something casual, but nothing comes out right.
“You’re late,” I manage, and it comes out gruff, like I’ve been holding my breath all day.
She arches a brow, sets her bag down by the door. “It’s not that late.”
I try to hold on to my irritation, but it slips through my fingers. I’m just…relieved she’s here. “Next time, text me,” I say, softer this time. “Or I’ll send out a search party.”
She almost smiles. There’s something cautious in her eyes, something that makes me want to pull her in and demand the truth—about the church, about everything. But I just stand there, hands buried in my pockets, watching her like she might vanish if I look away.
She toes off her shoes and crosses the room, the distance between us shrinking with every step. She stops a foot away, tilts her head. “Is something wrong?”