15. Dante
Dante
I shove my hands deep into my pockets, standing near the edge of the room. Enzo’s place is all family. Along with little girl squeals and puppy dog tails.
Christ.
A puppy baby shower.
Who the hell has my brother become?
My jaw locks tight, teeth grinding until bone meets bone as my gaze slices through a sea of pastel balloons and sugar-coated giggles.
Once, maybe, this glitter-sprinkled, Hallmark-card bullshit could’ve belonged to me.
Before Dad vanished into nothing but smoke and unanswered questions.
Before Trinity’s blood stains soaked through every corner of my fucked-up mind.
Now?
Now, I only come alive when I’m tearing the truth out of my adversaries, one blood-curdling scream at a time.
“Drink, Zio Dante?”
Two months ago, I was just another bloodthirsty mob boss. Now I’m Uncle Dante.
Because Enzo, the dark prince of Chicago’s underworld, stumbled headfirst into domestic bliss. Kids. Dogs. Wife.
Which means Riley, her only sister, will soon be an aunt. The ache of her absence burrows in my chest.
Why Riley’s avoiding Kennedy like the plague is beyond me. But if Mullvain women are like D’Angelo men, avoidance is a signature love language.
And this, too, shall pass.
I accept the lemonade, flashing a tight smile at the adorable niece I barely know, and wait until she flounces off before discreetly unscrewing my flask and emptying half into the sickly sweet drink.
It’s not that I don’t want to know her. I can’t afford for her to know me. My life is one big ticking time bomb, and I can’t afford another innocent caught in the blast.
“Sharing is caring,” Dillon drawls, snatching the flask and generously topping off his own lemonade. His eyes glint with the kind of dark amusement that typically leaves bodies scattered behind him. “Does Enzo know?”
“Know what?”
His mouth curls into an infuriating grin. “That his wife’s baby sister is about to become hired help at your den of debauchery?”
I swirl the spiked lemonade, eyes fixed straight ahead. Dillon’s intel isn’t some mythical twin juju. More like my dickhead brother’s spy network has crept through every dark corner of my existence.
Especially up my ass.
“Not yet,” is all I offer.
“So your balls aren’t on death row yet. Good to know.”
Mateo slides between us, draping an arm over each of our shoulders. “I ordered the tiniest headstone known to man. Just in case. ‘Here lie Dante’s balls—gone, and barely remembered.’”
Dillon snorts into his cup. “They died as they lived—tragically unused.”
Mateo grins wickedly. “The man hasn’t been with a woman in, what, a year? It feels less like mourning and more like a mercy killing.”
I shove Mateo off, scowling, though amusement claws dangerously at the corners of my mouth. “Fuck off, both of you. At least I have something worth mourning.”
Mateo chuckles, tapping my shoulder. “Barely, brother. Barely.”
“So,” Dillon whispers, quiet as a sharp blade across my neck, “Riley.”
“What about her?”
“Funny, I don’t recall her audition, and I audition all dancers.”
I narrow my eyes. The fucker has no limits, and the thrill of swapping identities wore off around the time my mugshot became his phone wallpaper.
I take a quick glance around, making sure Enzo is still out of earshot. “It’s alarmingly easy to murder you and assume your identity. Our only differences are our ink and IQ scores.”
“And our dicks.” He grabs his crotch confidently. “Mine’s at least six inches bigger.”
“Sorry to crush your dreams, anaconda, but the overinflated girth of that Neanderthal skull of yours doesn’t count.”
He sighs dramatically, utterly unfazed. “Should I check in with the concierge, or just swagger in pretending to be you? You know—for the lap dance.”
“If you so much as breathe near Pom?—”
“Pom?” Dillon presses his fingers theatrically to his temples, eyes fluttering closed. “Give me a second. Channeling your brainwaves.”
“We’re identical, asshole. Not conjoined.”
“Shh.” He scolds me like a psychic in deep concentration.
God, I hate when he does this. Mostly because the jackass is usually right.
“Pom…” he hums, drawing out the syllable, and my patience. I start to leave, but he catches my arm. “Pomegranate!” He practically shouts the word, eyes snapping open.
“Shut up!”
“As in forbidden fruit?” Mateo snickers.
Dillon chuckles. “Is that supposed to remind me or you?”
“It’s a reminder that if you even breathe in her direction, I will end you.”
He raises both hands in mock surrender. “I’m not the one you should be worried about. Does Kennedy know you have a thing for her baby sister? What about Enzo?”
“I do not have a thing.”
Mateo snickers, smacking Dillon squarely in the chest. “Ha! Told you Dante had no thing. Zero in his pants. Now pay up.”
Kennedy sweeps into the room and makes a bee-line right for us. And fuck—her resemblance to Riley hits me square in the chest.
If I’d hoped to get a reprieve from Pom for at least a few goddamn hours and straight-razor her from the deepest recesses of my brain, today is definitely not the day.
Kennedy’s pure sunshine wrapped in an effervescent glow, but even that can’t mask the sadness lurking beneath her smile.
“I took tons of pics for Riley,” she says softly as Enzo joins us, blinking back tears. Photos meant to bridge a gap that Riley’s not ready to close.
Kennedy flips through enough images to fill a yearbook. And since Riley’s absence gnaws at me like fingertips tracing fresh ink, the next several dozen she scrolls through are, technically, from me.
The way Enzo’s hand gently smoothes over her belly, paired with the idiotic gaze they share, makes it painfully obvious Kennedy’s pregnant—even though Enzo practically lied straight to my face about it.
Then again, I’m basically lying to him about my fixation with Kennedy’s baby sister—to the point I still haven’t bothered to clean her come stain from my pants, so there’s that.
I toss back the last of my spiked lemonade, eager to get the hell out of here before the persistent bulge in my pants draws unwanted attention.
Enzo corners me the second my brothers scatter like roaches under a sunlamp. His gaze drills into me, sharp enough to flay skin. “You’re handling it? ”
My hand twitches at my side, knuckles craving the feel of his throat.
It.
Like she doesn’t have a name.
Riley .
Her name is Riley.
Is that so goddamn hard to remember?
Then again, this is Enzo, and we’re talking about two whole syllables here, so maybe it is.
I loosen my tie with deliberate nonchalance, shoving back my rage with practiced restraint, and nod. “ It’s handled.”
He grips my shoulder, fingers tightening just a beat too long. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely worried or just fucking with my head. “Good. Your assurance is all I need. I trust you implicitly.”
I nearly choke on the urge to laugh.
Exactly three people have any business trusting me:
First, any man strapped to a chair, fingernails peeled like fruit skins, can trust I’ll grant him the mercy of death. But only after he’s spilled every secret I demand.
Second, anyone reckless enough to betray me. They can trust I’ll burn their entire fucking world to ashes.
And then, there’s Riley. Sweet, innocent Pom can trust I’ll fulfill every twisted, filthy promise of punishment I’ve ever whispered against her skin.
But Enzo?
Trust me?
I just shake my head.
Worst idea ever.
Enzo nods slowly, understanding glinting in his gaze as he finally lets the topic drop. He tips back a swig straight from the flask he’s never without.
Not even at a baby shower.
For a dog.
Then he shifts gears, straight onto a road I’d rather torch than travel.
“I hear Zver’s making waves.”
I toss him a sidelong glance, my irritation tightly leashed. “It’s what he does.”
He exhales a slow, meditative breath—probably some yoga shit Kennedy taught him. “Two of my warehouses,” he stews quietly. “Ten million dollars worth of inventory, up in a ball of fucking smoke.”
“Those were Uncle Andre’s warehouses,” I seethe back. “You only just took possession.”
“Which is why my give-a-fuck factor is slightly above subzero.” He pockets his flask, eyes sharpening. “You should think this through. Recklessness isn’t a virtue.”
“Is this the part where I do as you say, not as you do?”
Piercing amber eyes drill into me, silently assessing. A storm brews there—pride, regret, and a shadow of concern. A look that whispers he knows exactly how high the price of revenge can climb, and how swiftly it demands payment.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?”
The last thing I need from Enzo is a fucking lecture, especially after everything that’s happened with Kennedy.
“The plan is meticulous,” I assure him. “Every step choreographed, every move painstakingly precise.” I straighten my sleeve with a terse tug, irritated.
It’s not the blood on my hands, thank fuck. At least, not this time. Not since Pom...
I glance down again, distracted. The serpent tattoo already beginning to fade. Best tattoo artist in the world, my ass.
“If you need my help?—”
“I don’t.” The end state is crystal clear. But in case my big bro needs a reminder, I spell it out for him. “It’s not that hard. Either Zver dies, or I do.”