20. Dante
Dante
A fter an hour working the bastard, the stench of blood and piss is thick enough to choke on. Almost enough to make me quit.
Almost.
His body swings lifelessly from chains, wrists shredded raw, yet somehow the asshole still has way too much fucking fight left in him.
He hasn’t given me everything. And I need it all—names, places, details. Every single thread connecting to the attacks on our family. Which now includes Pom.
I roll my shoulders, forcing out a jagged breath. Despite the soft lies fed by binge-worthy TV, torture isn’t quick. It’s filthy. Brutal. A fucking marathon, not some candy-ass sprint.
But a restless dread gnaws deep in my gut. The ugly truth that this bastard might hold out for days.
Days I don’t have.
My fist slams hard into his gut. Knuckles crack bone against his ruined cheek.
Hmm . Not even a twitch.
Stepping closer, I inspect my handiwork, boots carefully skirting the murky puddles of blood, piss, and snot congealing on the concrete floor.
Slack. Dangling like meat from a slaughterhouse hook.
I can’t tell if he’s out cold, playing dead, or just fucking with me.
Fine. Time to crank up the heat.
I flick on the cattle prod, the electric hum buzzing loud in the concrete space. One vicious kiss against his mangled cheek does the trick.
He jolts awake, a ragged scream tearing out of him, raw enough to wake the dead. “Fuck!”
“It was a bold move,” I murmur darkly, pressing the prod tighter to his ear, savoring his tortured cries like music. “Coming for us on my brother’s wedding day. So, now that I have your attention, who ordered Riley’s attack?”
The fucker spits blood, choking out a broken laugh that rattles wetly in his throat. “Who?”
With a snarl, I shove the cattle prod straight into his thigh. He convulses, a brutal, animalistic howl ripping through his throat as his body thrashes violently against the restraints.
“You. Know. Who,” he rasps, agony ripping each word apart.
“If I knew who,” I growl softly, dialing the prod higher, “I wouldn’t need this.”
I wave the buzzing prod in front of his face, unsure if he can even see through the pulped, swollen wreckage of his eyes. “Spell it the fuck out.”
“D’Angelo,” he spits through shattered teeth.
Not good enough. Not even close.
We’ve been played before—fed lies by desperate assholes looking to pit brother against brother. If he drops one of my brothers’ names now, I’ll know he’s full of shit.
And then I’ll get really fucking pissed.
“Which one?” I demand, igniting the prod again, savoring the way his ruined body jerks violently at the menacing sparks.
When silence meets my question, I slam the prod straight into his balls.
“Andretti!” he howls, finally breaking, pain shredding his voice. “Your uncle!”
Uncle Andre.
Just the confirmation I needed. He’s broken enough to finally start telling the truth.
And Uncle Andre wants a war? Fine. He can have one. But he came for Riley, and now the gloves are off.
“He’s not done with her yet,” whatever his name is wheezes.
My pulse kicks violently, molten rage searing through every vein. It takes everything in me not to shove the prod straight up this fucker’s ass. “What do you mean?”
“Means you need me,” he rasps, agony shredding the words apart. “I know who you are. Haven’t breathed a fucking word—not even to your uncle. You can trust me.” He drags out the word like it’s coated in glue, consciousness slipping away with each syllable.
“Tell me exactly what he wants with her.”
He shakes his head weakly, blood bubbling from cracked lips. “He knows if I give her to him, he’d have you by the fucking throat.”
I tilt my head slowly, deliberately—the threat unspoken, but unmistakable. This bastard masterminded Riley’s attack.
And here I was, thinking I’d just dragged in another disposable lackey.
Wrong again.
I need to remember this bastard holds information—something vital, something worth more than the pound of flesh I’m determined to take from him.
I stare at my hands, slick with blood?—
Not his blood.
His blood is dark, disgusting. Whatever this fucker eats, drinks, or smokes is beyond me, but it leaves behind the kind of thick, viscous stain you’d expect oozing from a corpse.
This fresh crimson dripping between my fingers isn’t his.
It’s hers .
Trinity’s.
My sister’s.
It’s a nightmare I can’t escape. A torment my demons conjure relentlessly, forcing me to relive the night I failed her.
I wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t fucking there when she needed me most.
Now Trinity’s blood stains my conscience—a life sentence of guilt I’ll never outrun.
But if my uncle—or this bastard bleeding by a meathook—thinks I’ll ever let history repeat itself with Pom, they’ve both underestimated just how cutthroat a haunted man can become.
“You can trust me,” he slurs, voice shredded, choking wetly on his own blood.
“Can I?” I ask, detached. Cold. “Prove it. Give me something real—something that shows your allegiance.”
His hesitation is pointless, and I let the silence suffocate him until he scrapes together the strength to speak. “This isn’t about you.”
I roll my sleeves slowly, deliberately, each turn radiating ruthless calm. Just me, him, and four unforgiving concrete walls. “Then who the fuck is it about?”
A twisted, blood-smeared grin carves across his ruined face—grotesque, sickly amused. Victorious. “Zver.”
Using the cattle prod—now cold—I tip his chin upward, forcing his destroyed gaze to mine. One swollen slit meets my stare. “Explain.”
“I was there that night—the night she was attacked. I saw Zver. Fucker has a hard-on ten miles long for your girl.” He wheezes, blood bubbling through his shattered teeth.
“Came charging in like some knight in fucking armor. Killed two of your uncle’s best men for her.
” His laughter scrapes like broken glass in his throat.
“Now that’s a dog your uncle can train.”
My pulse pounds violently at my temples, deafening, murderous. “How?”
“Take her. Tuck her away. Somewhere overseas. Have her gang raped on command if Zver doesn’t do exactly as he says.” His rough chuckle grows. “Everyone wants a taste of Riley’s cunt.”
Hearing her name drip from his filthy mouth detonates the savage beast. A fury so raw, so primal, so instant—I don’t even attempt restraint.
Fuck strategy.
Fuck consequences.
And fuck him.
I drive the prod deep into his chest, pinning him mercilessly, electricity ripping through flesh and bone. I hold firm until smoke curls dark and acrid in the air, sealing my secrets forever in blistered, blackened silence.
No one threatens what’s mine and lives.