Chapter 20 Dante
DANTE
Yonez scrolls to a manifest photo. “Four containers—two declared as farm machinery, two as ceramic tile. Actual load—”
“Sixty crates of Makarovs and three pallets of spare mags,” I finish. “Everything routed through Tallinn first, relabeled in Hamburg, then trucked down to us.”
Markov taps the screen. “Customs will flag the tile containers if they open them. Weight’s wrong.”
“I’ve got Otto at the port hungry for bribe money,” I say. “He’ll wave it through for ten grand and a box of Rolex knockoffs. But if Tallinn’s paperwork slips, we’re exposed.”
Yonez nods. “Then we stage the swap twenty-four hours earlier—shift the manifests, give Tallinn less time to ask questions.”
I’m about to confirm when a pair of manicured hands snake over my shoulders and latch on. Lavender perfume hits me a beat later.
“Dante!” Larissa chirps, hugging me like we’re childhood sweethearts.
I stiffen. “Larissa.” I try to pry her off, but she just squeezes tighter, beaming up at me, oblivious to the coldness in my voice. “We’re in the middle of work.”
She pouts, oblivious. “Work, work, work. You hardly said hello.”
“Because I was talking.” My tone slips colder than I intend, but she either doesn’t hear it or pretends she doesn’t.
Past her shoulder, I catch Adriana standing at the table—blue dress, hair neat, shoulders tight.
She’s holding the back of a chair like a lifeline.
Larissa’s voice goes on, a bright hum I tune out.
Adriana looks straight at me, something like hurt flickering across her face—then she turns, heads for the path without a word.
Static floods my chest. I step away from Larissa. “Adriana.”
She keeps walking. Doesn’t even slow.
Larissa laughs lightly, still too close. “Did I interrupt?”
I ignore her, eyes on Adriana’s retreating figure. “Yonez, finalize the Tallinn change. Markov, set up the payoff with Otto. I want confirmation by noon.”
They nod, already turning away. Larissa tries to capture my arm again. I sidestep, voice flat. “Not now, Larissa.”
Her smile falters, confusion flickering in her eyes. I don’t wait to explain.
I turn off the path, determined to catch up with Adriana, but my father wheels himself in front of me, blocking the way with practiced ease. He rests both hands on the rims, that familiar, polite mask settling over his face—a look I’ve seen a hundred times before, right before he twists the knife.
“Dante, don’t be rude to our guest,” he says, voice mild enough to grate. “Larissa came a long way to see the family. If your—” He pauses, lets the pause sting. “Arrogant wife doesn’t care to join us, she’s free to sulk somewhere else.”
“I need to speak to her.”
He tilts his head, the faintest smile appearing. He clicks his tongue. “Son, this breakfast was arranged to foster good relations. Larissa is important for our family’s public face. If your bride can’t understand how to behave, the rest of us will enjoy some proper company.”
My jaw tightens. I glance from my father’s smug face to the table, to Larissa. All of them are watching, some openly, some just pretending not to see. It’s all a show.
That’s when it clicks.
I cut him off. “You called Larissa here to humiliate Adriana. Don’t pretend it was anything else.”
I see it now—the aunts’ forced cheer, Larissa’s appearance out of nowhere, the too-bright smiles and lingering stares. My father’s voice is all false politeness, but I know the venom underneath.
I fix him with a look, voice low and steady. “Was this your plan? Parade Larissa in front of everyone so my wife would know her place?”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Your wife is free to join us any time she wishes. If she can’t handle a little competition, maybe she isn’t cut out for this family.”
My hands curl into fists. “This is petty. Even for you.”
His smile deepens, pleased I’ve named it. “Perception, Dante. The Petrovs never missed a chance to remind us of our place. A little reminder, from time to time, is healthy for everyone. Especially for your wife.”
We lock eyes—a beat, maybe two—then he flicks his hand, and his attendant backs the chair away an inch.
“Don’t let your feelings cloud your judgment, Dante,” he says, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. “A Volkov who lets sentiment lead him will always be someone else’s pawn.”
I don’t answer. I walk past him, the words burning in my ears, and follow the path after Adriana.
It takes me a few minutes to find her. I check the usual places—the quiet hallway by the library, the old sitting room near the stairs—before I finally spot her through the glass doors of the upstairs terrace.
She stands by the rail, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the city as if the skyline might offer a way out.
I push open the door and step outside. She turns, startled, like she never expected me to follow. Her voice is small but clear. “Why are you here?”
For a second, I almost don’t answer. There’s a heaviness in her eyes that wasn’t there before—a rawness that makes my chest tighten. I lean back against the railing, keeping my distance, hands shoved in my pockets.
“I didn’t want to leave things like that,” I say. “You walked out.”
She looks away, jaw set, blinking fast. The wind tugs at her hair. I can tell she’s trying to steel herself, to put the mask back on.
“Why should you care?” she says quietly. “You seemed just fine out there with everyone else.”
Her words land harder than I expect. I exhale, searching for the right thing to say. “I care,” I tell her, voice rough. “Maybe I don’t always show it the way I should. But I do.”
She studies me, uncertainty flickering across her face. The air between us is tense—full of all the things we haven’t said.
I take a slow step closer. “Adriana. Don’t let them get to you. You’re not alone here. Not as long as I have any say.”
She shakes her head, but I can see her throat working, her eyes shining in the sunlight. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
I reach for her hand, gentle, letting her decide if she’ll take it. “Let me try to change that. Please.”
Her hand is cold in mine. She stares out over the terrace, eyes on the gray clouds rolling in over the city.
“Why me?” she says, voice low. “I’m not even pretty. Not like her. Not like Larissa.”
For a second, I just watch her. The words twist in my chest. I know the game that’s being played downstairs, the comparisons, the way Larissa fits every mold Adriana was never meant for. But hearing her say it like this—small, worn out, honest—makes something inside me want to snap.
I shake my head. “Pretty is easy. You think I need easy?” My thumb traces over her knuckles, rough and steady. “You’re not her. Thank God. I don’t need perfect. I don’t want perfect. I want—” I stop myself, careful not to go too far. “I want someone real. That’s you.”
She looks at me then, unsure, rain starting to spit across the tiles—cold, sudden, prickling at my skin. The wind picks up. I see her shiver.
Before she can pull away, I step closer, cup her face in my hands. The city and the house and all the ghosts behind us fade to nothing. I kiss her hard—cold rain running down our faces, her lips parted in surprise, the kiss more raw than sweet.
When I pull back, her eyes are wide, rain in her lashes. “You shouldn’t believe anything they say about you,” I murmur. “And you’re more than pretty, Adriana. You’re fucking unforgettable.”
She’s still breathing hard from the kiss, rain streaking down her cheeks, mixing with the remnants of tears. Her lips part in confusion as I brush a wet strand of hair behind her ear.
“And I’m going to show you what I mean,” I say, voice firm. “Pack your bags. We’re leaving.”
She blinks. “What?”
“We’re going back to the city,” I say simply, already reaching for her hand.
She stands there for a second, caught between disbelief and hope, rain gathering at her lashes. “But—now? What about your family? What about—”
“They’ll survive,” I cut in, letting a hint of a smile show. “Go. Get your things. I’ll meet you at the car in ten minutes.”
For the first time all day, I see something new spark in her eyes. She nods, a little breathless, and when she turns to go, I watch her run—head down through the rain, blue dress clinging to her, looking more alive than I’ve seen her in weeks.
I stand in the downpour a second longer, letting it wash everything else away.
We come down the main staircase, bags in hand, Adriana walking half a step behind me. Her cheeks are flushed from the rush, eyes darting everywhere but never landing on any of the faces waiting below. The rain streaks the tall windows, thunder rolling somewhere in the distance.
My father waits in the foyer, jaw tight, his chair angled so he can block the front door. Liam stands off to one side, arms folded. My mother appears near the dining room archway, twisting her hands, eyes flicking between us and my father.
He’s the first to speak, his voice cold and public. “Leaving in such a hurry, son? With the whole house watching?”
I meet his eyes. “I need to be in the city. There’s business to handle. It can’t wait.”
My mother edges closer, voice soft but pleading. “Dante, please. Think about what you’re doing. The family—people will talk. You can’t just walk out. Not with her.”
My father’s voice cracks like a whip. “You’re making a mistake. You think running solves anything? You think dragging your wife back to the city fixes the disrespect she showed this morning?”
I look from one face to another, all the old expectations pressing in. “I’m not running. I told you—I need to be in the city. That’s all.”
He laughs, bitter, shaking his head. “Is that what you’re telling yourself? That this is about business? Not about her? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re letting a Petrova make a fool out of you.”
Something in me snaps. I step forward, voice steady but dangerous. “No, Father. I’m making my own decisions. I don’t need your permission—or anyone else’s.”
He narrows his eyes, face hard. “You think you’re different from me, Dante? You think love—or whatever you call this—lets you forget who you are? This family is built on loyalty, on blood. Not on whims. Don’t throw it away for a girl who’ll never belong.”
Adriana flinches beside me, but I keep my arm steady at her waist. “I know exactly who I am,” I say. “And I’m done letting everyone else decide what that means.”
Liam watches, lips pressed tight, torn between backing me up and staying silent. My mother blinks away tears, looking between us.
We step out into the rain, bags in hand, the heaviness of the house and all its eyes pressing against our backs. Adriana’s grip on her suitcase is white-knuckled, but her chin is lifted, her steps sure. For once, neither of us slows down.
The driver’s already got the car waiting by the curb. I open the back door for her, scanning the windows—half expecting to see my father’s silhouette in the glare, my mother wringing her hands behind him, Liam hovering in the hall, wanting to follow but knowing better.
I toss our bags in the trunk and slide in beside Adriana. The inside of the car feels too warm, the air thick with that mix of leather and something new—hope, maybe, or just adrenaline.
The rain hammers on the roof as the driver pulls away. I glance at Adriana. She’s staring straight ahead, breathing a little faster than normal, a strand of hair stuck to her damp cheek. I reach out, brush it away.
She doesn’t say anything at first, and neither do I. The city rolls closer with every mile, the mansion shrinking behind us, the family’s voices growing smaller and smaller until they’re nothing but static in the back of my mind.
After a few minutes, I lean in, keep my voice low. “You okay?”
She nods, swallowing hard. “I just didn’t think we’d actually leave. Not like that.”
“Me neither,” I admit, a wry smile tugging at my mouth. “But I’m not going back on it.”
She turns then, really looks at me, still uncertain, still raw, but there’s something steadier in her eyes. “Thank you.”
By the time we reach my building, the rain’s let up, but the world still feels washed clean. We ride the elevator to the penthouse in silence. I watch her from the corner of my eye, how she holds herself together—her stubborn chin, the line of her shoulders.
My apartment is all glass and dark wood, big windows looking out over the skyline, the kind of place that feels colder at night but alive with the city’s hum.
Concrete floors, steel fixtures, a kitchen that looks untouched.
I never bothered with personal touches. The only photographs are old, stuck in a drawer.
The living room is sparse, huge couch, a low table, a TV I barely watch.
Two glasses on the bar, always ready, just in case.
Adriana stands in the middle of the open space, letting her bag slip to the floor. She turns in a slow circle, taking it in.
“Do you like it?” I ask, hands in my pockets.
She looks over her shoulder, trying for a smile. “I do. Very…bachelor pad.” She moves toward the window, fingers trailing over the back of the couch.
I close the door behind me. She’s quiet for a moment, then she says, without turning, “About what you said to your father back there…”
I keep my gaze on the city, not ready for this. “Which part?”
She shifts, watching me in the reflection. “About why we’re here. Your father said something about love—”
I cut her off. “He was just trying to get under your skin. And mine.” My voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “I don’t love you. I don’t think I can love anyone.”
She nods, looking away, hands twisting in her sleeves. “Right. I get it,” she says, soft, her voice a little unsteady. She doesn’t meet my eyes. For a moment, her shoulders seem to fold in on themselves, and the hurt settles over her like a shadow—quiet, proud, but unmistakable.
I stand there, not sure what else to say, the silence thick between us. The city glows outside, restless and alive, and all the things I didn’t say hang in the air—things I can’t let myself feel, even if part of me already does.