19. Dante
Dante
D ominic wheels in the enormous crate, the cart shrieking beneath its brutal weight before he vanishes through the door into the next room.
Screens flicker silently, ghostly blue washing over the hardened, merciless faces of my men.
Worse than six feet under? Try this hellhole—a forgotten bunker buried half a century ago and untouched ever since.
All courtesy of my grandfather.
Not my father’s father, Nonno Vito D’Angelo. He was brilliance and brutality stitched into Armani suits.
No, this tomb is the twisted inheritance of my mother’s father. Merciless with his enemies, unhinged and batshit beyond belief. Most traces of him, including his name, are erased beneath decades of blood, madness, and carefully crafted lies.
But thanks to Gramps—or rather, his legendary paranoia and obsessive devotion to secrecy—this fortress exists.
That, and the towering mountain of blood-soaked cash it took to fund it.
It’s the ideal graveyard for secrets.
Especially mine.
Layers of concrete and steel so thick, I wonder if a nuke could blast through it.
The air is suffocating, the silence perversely serene. That despite the man I know is in the next room, bound and probably choking on his own blood-curdling screams by now.
My eyes cut sharply to every face in the room, dread coiling hot and dangerous inside my gut.
The D’Angelo empire wasn’t built on mercy—it was chiseled from bloodshed, terror, and consequence. Loyalty isn’t an ask; it’s a fucking commandment.
And traitors?
They’re strung up to serve as cautionary tales.
I’ve sensed a mole poisoning our ranks—a slow leak of betrayal whispered quietly into the dark. Which is exactly why I chose these three men. My most loyal. Most deadly.
Even then, trust isn’t blind. Their calls, texts, hell, even their fucking bathroom breaks—all of it monitored. Tracked. Analyzed.
Trust, but verify. Always fucking verify.
I’ve kept them in the dark about the truth. This mission.
No hint about what’s in those boxes or what lies ahead.
But if my father’s disappearance has taught me anything, it’s that every secret comes with a price.
Silence breeds suspicion.
And suspicion?
Breeds betrayal.
“Status?” My voice scrapes raw through my throat, roughened by restraint and enough stale air to fill King Tut’s tomb.
Hector’s gaze snaps up from the monitors, fatigue carved deep into every harsh line of his face. “Ventilation and lights up within the hour. But?—”
“But?”
“Ventilation and lights are the least of our worries. We’ve got half a dozen black sites already—why pile all our assets into one massive target?” He swallows hard, brows pulling tight. “And with Zver…”
I tug at my sleeve, shifting to adjust my cuff. “What about him?”
“Intel’s thin, but that Russian asshole’s making moves again. Rumors of a third strike incoming, boss. You’re building a crypt when we need a fucking battlefield. If he figures out the value of this location?—”
“He won’t.” My voice cracks like a whip, cutting him off cold. Since when do I owe them, or anyone, an explanation?
Hector hesitates, unease carving jagged edges into every word. “Zver’s not to be trifled with. He’s crippled half the syndicates in this city. He’s gaining ground. If he starts building alliances, your plan—whatever the fuck it is?—”
“I said he won’t.”
Silence.
These men—my men—know better than to question me. But Hector’s always been the lone wolf. Instincts sharp. Tongue sharper. And right now, his teeth are locked around a bone he won’t fucking drop.
“Tell us the plan. Let us protect you.”
My thoughts slam to a halt, mangled by words that twist like barbed wire around my mind.
“You’re already protecting me. Aren’t you?”
His spine snaps straight. “Yes, sir.”
Their discontent ripples beneath every glance, every restless shift, every breath. I feel it simmering, their hunger for vengeance—or violence, or whatever the fuck fuels their thirst for blood.
This is the moment my recklessness hits me square in the chest. Lack of trust is the ultimate weakness—usually ending with a colossal fucking knife in the back.
Kade cuts in quietly, voice deceptively calm, eyes glittering with predatory anticipation…and enough doubt in me that he spells it out like he’s teaching a toddler.
“Zver’s moves—they’re tactical,” he warns. “Like bees bumping a predator, nudging him exactly where they want him. Positioning the swarm for the kill.”
My jaw locks, tendons drawn tighter than steel cables.
Right now, I’ve got half a mind to play spin-the-bottle with my Glock and shoot whoever it fucking points to.
But losing their confidence isn’t a risk I can take.
Patience.
Control.
I drag in a steadying breath, reminding myself this is chess, not a goddamned street brawl.
So I toss them a bone. “Once I secure the Irish alliance, do whatever the fuck you want with Zver.” I stab a finger at each of them. “Not. One. Day. Sooner.”
Hector’s smile darkens into grim satisfaction. “Shaking hands with the Keenans is like gripping a straight razor. Sooner or later, you bleed.”
My gaze slices through every man in the room, pinpointing their silent, lethal devotion. “Then when that time comes, we’ll slit their throats. With their own fucking blades.”
Unified affirmations erupt like a battle cry. Hard men ready to spill blood without question, without mercy.
Light blasts through the bunker, flooding every shadowed corner. Hector slams both fists down onto the desk, eyes blazing. “We’re live.”
Fresh air surges in, the ventilation roaring awake.
Fucking finally.
I drag in a lungful of fresh air.
Dying for this operation?
Practically a given.
Suffocating in a World War II prepper’s bunker?
Pathetic beyond words.
Dominic returns and steps close, voice pitched low. He opens a large hand stained red, revealing a battered scrap of paper. “Found this on the guy, boss. Looks like some kind of code.”
His other hand grips a cattle prod, bloodied and humming with eager violence.
I don’t bother looking, just hold out my hand. Waiting.
Dominic hesitates. Predictable from a part-time thug, part-time geek. Protective to a fault. To him, every code begs to be cracked—just like the bones of the piece of shit in the next room.
Slowly, reluctantly, he complies.
“You’ve done enough. All of you.”
Dominic’s face falls. “Sir, I just got started.” His disappointment is that of a child stripped of his favorite toy, especially as I take the cattle prod from his hand.
“I’ll finish.”
They pause, exchanging wary glances. Dominic’s stare drills into my skull like he’s two seconds from cracking it open himself to check for a functioning brain.
He’s not alone.
Every single one of my brothers has thought the exact same thing. Out loud. Frequently.
Right now, I don’t care. I just need them to get the fuck out so I have space to breathe. Space to think.
Space to…work.
Without another word, they file obediently out. The massive door seals shut behind them with a heavy, final thud.
Finally alone, I set the cattle prod aside and pull out a lighter, glancing down at the scrap of paper Dominic discovered.
“ Zapretnaya ,” I murmur, tasting the Russian word on my tongue.
Forbidden.
The perfect word to warn others away.
To warn me away.
I flick the lighter, torching one corner, then drop the flaming scrap to the floor, watching as the word shrivels into ash.
A heavy weight sinks deep in my chest.
Beneath months of ruthless ambition, cold calculation, and unrestrained brutality, a single vulnerability gnaws viciously at the edges of everything I’ve built.
One threat.
That’s all it would take to shred my carefully constructed defenses like an industrial chainsaw through a redwood.
My one unforgivable, undeniable weakness.
Pom .