27. Dante
27
DANTE
I storm into the Marino estate, my blood still boiling from the fight with Chiara. The guilt of hurting her gnaws at me, but it’s overshadowed by my frustration. She needs to understand how much her indecision is tearing me apart.
I make my way to my father’s office, trying to compose myself as I knock at the door.
“Enter,” my father says gruffly, and I push open the door.
Dad sits behind his massive oak desk, his weathered face creased in concentration as he pores over a stack of ledgers. Despite his advancing years, his frame is still solid, his presence commanding respect and fear in equal measure.
As I enter, he glances up, his dark eyes narrowing as they take in my agitated state. The scar that runs from his left eyebrow to his jawline seems to deepen as he frowns. I’m clearly not hiding my mood well.
“Dante,” he says, his voice gravelly and impatient. “What’s the status on the protection racket in the east end?”
I force myself to focus, pushing thoughts of Chiara aside. “The new gang is still causing trouble. I’ve got intel on their main hideout, but?—”
“But what?” Dad interrupts, irritation clear in his tone. He sets down his pen with a sharp click, giving me his full attention. It’s not a comfortable feeling.
“But I think we should wait before moving in. Give them a false sense of security,” I snap, my voice harsher than intended.
My father’s expression hardens, the lines around his mouth deepening. He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking ominously. “You seem distracted,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “I need your head in the game, Dante, not wherever the hell it is right now.”
I can see the growing irritation in the set of his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw. Victorio Tenebre isn’t a man who tolerates incompetence or insubordination, even from his own son. Especially from his own son.
I clench my jaw, trying to rein in my temper. “I’m fine.”
Dad stands, his presence filling the room. He’s not a tall man, but his reputation makes him seem ten feet tall. I idolize and fear him. “No, you’re not. And I don’t have time for this bullshit.”
He reaches into his desk drawer, pulling out a file. “Forget the east end. I’ve got a new job for you. Marconi’s behind on his payments. Go remind him why that’s a bad idea.”
I take the file, knowing better than to argue. Marconi’s a longtime supplier, but he’s been getting sloppy lately. A reminder of his obligations is long overdue.
“Who do you want me to take with me?” I ask, flipping through the file.
My father’s eyes narrow at me as he brings out a cigar. “I’m not your fucking babysitter, Dante. You figure out who you want to bring. Am I understood?”
I grit my teeth, gripping the file tightly in my hands. “Yes, sir.”
“And Dante,” my father adds as I turn to leave, “get your fucking shit together. I won’t tolerate this attitude much longer. Understood?”
The threat in his voice is clear. I nod stiffly. “Yes, sir.”
I can feel my father’s eyes boring into my back and feel the weight of his disappointment as I leave the office. This isn’t fucking new to me, but I need to reign it in. I know I’m on thin ice, but I can’t shake the anger and frustration coursing through me.
Maybe a confrontation with Marconi is exactly what I need to blow off some steam. And if Marconi doesn’t cooperate… well, that’s his problem.
I head out, my mind already planning how to handle Marconi. But even as I focus on the task at hand, thoughts of Chiara linger in the back of my mind, a constant reminder of the turmoil in my heart.
* * *
In the end, I bring Sal, Leo, and Johnny with me and we arrive at Marconi’s warehouse, a dilapidated building on the outskirts of town. The smells of fish and rotting wood assault my nostrils as we enter. Marconi, a balding man in his fifties with a protruding belly, stands nervously behind a battered desk. Two younger men flank him, their hands hovering near their waistbands.
The warehouse is dimly lit, stacks of crates casting long shadows. The air is thick with tension and the faint scent of fear.
Marconi supplies the Marino family with a variety of goods—mostly imported liquor and cigarettes, but occasionally more illicit items. He’s been reliable in the past, which makes his recent behavior all the more frustrating.
“Dante,” Marconi greets me, his voice overly cheerful. “What brings you here today?”
I cut straight to the chase. “You’re behind on your payments, Marconi. And word is, you’re short on our latest shipment.”
Marconi’s smile falters. “Ah, well, you see… there’s been a slight delay. Customs issues, you understand. But I assure you, it’ll all be sorted out soon.”
“Soon isn’t good enough,” I growl, feeling irritation rise in me. Why can’t this just be fucking easy? “We had a deal. Where’s our supply?”
Marconi spreads his hands in a placating gesture, showing off his garish gold rings. “Now, now, Dante. Let’s not be hasty. I’ve always come through for the family, haven’t I? Just give me a little more time. A week, maybe two…”
“Two weeks?” I scoff. “You think Don Marino’s going to wait two weeks?”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Marconi wheedles, sweat beading on his forehead as his two pathetic excuses for guards shift uncomfortably. “I’ve got a line on some premium Cuban cigars. Top shelf stuff. I’ll throw those in, no extra charge. What do you say?”
His attempts to bargain only fuel my growing anger. “I say you’re out of fucking time, Marconi. We want our supply, and we want it now .”
Marconi’s face pales further. “Dante, please. Be reasonable. I swear on my mother’s grave, I’ll have everything sorted out. Just give me?—”
Something inside me snaps. All the pent-up frustration and anger from the past few days comes rushing out. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve vaulted over the desk, my fist connecting with Marconi’s jaw.
He goes down hard, and I’m on him in an instant. My fists rain down, each punch fueled by my rage at Chiara, at Pyotr, at my father, at this whole fucking situation.
I’m vaguely aware of shouting, of Sal and Leo trying to pull me off. But I shrug them off, lost in the red haze of my anger.
It’s only when Johnny wraps his arms around me from behind, bodily hauling me away, that I come back to my senses.
Marconi lies on the floor, bloodied and whimpering. His men stand frozen, shock evident on their faces.
As the red mist clears from my vision, I realize what I’ve done. This isn’t me. This isn’t how we handle business.
Guilt and regret settle in my stomach. I turn to Marconi, who’s still on the floor, wiping blood from his face.
“You’ve got two weeks,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Next time we come, you'd better have everything we asked for. Understand?”
Marconi nods frantically, relief evident in his eyes despite the fear.
I turn to the guys who are gaping at me. “Let’s go.”
As we walk back to the car, I overhear Sal, Johnny, and Leo talking in hushed tones behind me.
“Jesus, I’ve never seen Dante like that,” Sal whispers.
“Yeah, man. He usually keeps his cool, you know? This was… different,” Johnny murmurs.
“Scary is what it was,” Leo adds. “Remind me never to get on his fucking bad side. I thought Marconi was toast.”
Their words make me wince internally. I’ve always prided myself on being level-headed, on using violence only when necessary. But today, I lost control completely.
I climb into the driver’s seat, ignoring the wary glances from the others as they get in. The drive back to the estate is silent, tension thick in the air.
Part of me wants to explain, to apologize for my behavior. But a larger part just wants to forget this whole day ever happened. So I keep my eyes on the road, my knuckles white on the steering wheel as we make our way back.
With each mile, the weight of my actions settles heavier on my shoulders. I know I’ve crossed a line today, one that I can’t easily step back from. And I can’t help but wonder if this is just the beginning of my spiral out of control.
As the Marino estate comes into view, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever consequences await. One thing’s for sure—I can’t let my personal turmoil affect my work like this again. I need to get my shit together, and fast.
But with thoughts of Chiara still swirling in my mind, I’m not sure if that’s even possible anymore.
* * *
Here goes fucking nothing , I think to myself as I ease open the door to my father’s office.
Dad looks up from his desk, his eyes narrowing as he takes in my disheveled appearance and bloodied knuckles.
“Report,” he barks.
I take a deep breath and give him a brief rundown of what happened with Marconi. As I finish, I can see the anger building in my father’s eyes.
Suddenly, he’s on his feet, closing the distance between us in two quick strides. He gets right in my face, his voice a controlled roar.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” he yells. “You beat up one of our fucking suppliers? And you didn’t even get the money or the supply?”
I flinch but hold my ground. “I gave him two weeks to?—”
“I don’t give a shit what you gave him!” Dad cuts me off. “This isn’t how we do business, Dante. We’re not common thugs. We use violence when necessary, not because we can’t control our fucking tempers!”
His words sting, but I know he’s right. I remain silent as he continues his tirade. I’ve learned the hard way over the years that when Dad’s in this kind of mood, it’s best to keep quiet and let him bitch me out.
“Do you have any idea how this makes us look? How it makes me look?” He jabs a finger into my chest. “I fucking vouched for you, and this is how you repay me? Goddammit , Dante!”
Finally, he takes a step back, running a hand over his face, taking in deep, measured breaths. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter but no less intense.
“At least you managed to salvage something by giving him a deadline. But this…” He gestures at my bloodied knuckles. “This can’t happen again. Understood?”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
Dad stares at me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face. Then he says something I’ve never heard from him before.
“Take the rest of the day off, Dante. Get your head on straight. I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you, but you need to sort it out. Now get out of my sight.”
Stunned, I turn and leave the office. As I close the door behind me, I’m hit with the full impact of what just happened. My father, who’s never given anyone a day off in his life, just told me to take one.
Fuck me. I’ve really screwed up this time. And as I walk away, I can’t shake the feeling that I'm teetering on the edge of something dangerous. I need to get my act together, but with my emotions in such turmoil, I’m not sure how.
I need to get out of the Marino mansion. The urge to rush to Chiara’s room, to confront her or beg her or both, is almost overwhelming. But I know that would only make things worse.
Instead, I force myself to walk toward the compound, each step feeling heavier than the last. The cool air does little to calm the storm raging inside me.
As I walk, my mind races. I can’t keep going on like this. The uncertainty, the waiting, watching Chiara flip-flop between her duty and her heart—it’s slowly driving me insane. Today’s incident with Marconi is proof of that. I’m losing control, and if I don’t do something soon, I might lose everything.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I need to take action. I can’t just stand by anymore, watching passively as Chiara struggles with her decision. It’s tearing us both apart.
But what can I do? Confront her father? Run away with her? Force her to make a decision?
None of the options seem good, but the alternative—continuing in this limbo—is unbearable.
I make a decision as the compound comes into view. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do yet, but I know I have to do something. I can’t wait for Chiara to make up her mind anymore. I need to take control of the situation, for both our sakes.