22. Dante
Dante
I storm into the Inferno, fury at my back like the tail end of a hurricane. Spotting Chio, my gorilla-sized security guard, I stalk straight for him.
“You wanna tell me why there was a woman in my office? With my brother?”
Chio—or Orsacchiotto —reads the murderous intent carved into every hard line of my face and doesn’t even hesitate. “Said you were expecting her.” He lifts his massive hands defensively, a pathetic, please-don’t-shoot-the-messenger shrug.
Irritation cracks like flint on steel. “And you just let her in?”
Then again, why am I surprised? This is exactly the kind of bullshit you get when your hired muscle’s full name translates to “teddy bear.”
“She even showed your card,” he rushes out.
Of fucking course she did.
“I swear,” he mutters, panic flashing raw and real behind his eyes, “I didn’t even look at her.”
“Congratulations. You get to keep your eyesight.” For now.
The slow weave of a relieved sigh leaves his lips.
I crack my knuckles slowly, methodically, letting each pop underscore the quiet threat in my next words. “Tell me you know exactly where they are.”
He jerks his chin sharply, eager to shift my rage anywhere but at him. “The stage, sir.”
Rage floods my veins, hot as lit diesel. Each step toward the stage is another bullet loaded into the chamber—a brutal promise, begging to be kept. Clear out, or brace for bloodshed.
Just before I hit the door, Dillon slides casually into the hall, shutting it behind him with infuriating ease. His arrogant smirk screams I just swallowed the fucking canary. Whole.
Huge fucking mistake.
Both fists bunch into his shirt. I slam him into the wall hard enough to crack plaster. My forearm grinds mercilessly into his throat, pinning him like a bug beneath glass.
“You seem wound tight, bro,” Dillon drawls lazily, amusement glittering his dark eyes. He’s practically begging me to snap.
Instinct overrides reason, raw fury eclipsing restraint.
My fist slams viciously into his smug face, knuckles cracking against bone. A modicum of satisfaction surges through my veins.
Except that the bastard doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he spits blood, his grin widening into feral joy. “Jealous? Don’t be. I didn’t touch her.”
Bull. Fucking. Shit.
Fury coils, snapping into another vicious swing. I punch harder, faster, but Dillon ducks effortlessly. My fist lands in his open palm. A calculated mercy considering he could’ve let every bone in my hand splinter against the wall.
I guess I should be grateful.
I’m not.
A vicious knee rockets toward his groin. A pussy move, I know. But fuck him and the shit eating grin still plastered across his face.
With the grace of a ninja, or a fucking ballerina, he sidesteps my attack and effortlessly sweeps my legs from under me. I land square on my ass.
His eyes hold mine hostage, arrogance personified. Dillon is me at my best. The casual, carefree bastard who always holds the upper hand.
And in this moment, everything I fucking hate, reflected back with intolerable glee.
He tsks. “You’re off your game, bro.” He swipes blood from his lip, smirking. “What’s wrong? Losing sleep over something?” His gaze sharpens. “Or someone? ”
My jaw clenches, words trapped behind gritted teeth.
He continues. “Care to explain why Mateo’s at your bat cave cleaning up a tortured-man shish-kabob?”
I say nothing.
Dillon smirks, knowing exactly where to shove the knife and twist. “Let me guess—medium-rare fucktard ran his mouth about your girlfriend?”
“She’s not my fucking girlfriend,” I grind out, denial scraping my throat raw.
“Right.” Amusement curls up his cheek to an infuriating grin.
“It’s not about her,” I bite back, meeting his raised brow head-on. I double down because that’s what I do. “I have a mole,” I grit. “The flambé fuck all but confirmed it.”
“A mole conjured this level of wrath? Yeah, I don’t think so.” He leans down, tapping his temple smugly. “Twin brain, remember? I know you better than you know yourself. From your favorite flavor of self-sabotage to your depraved porn preferences.”
“Fine,” I snarl, forcing out the truth as comfortably as spitting splintered glass. “Maybe he mentioned Riley.”
“So, you’ve got it bad enough you’d kill for her. Interesting. Does this mean your dick finally works again, or is it still playing possum?”
My death glare hits him square in the face, razor-edged and murderous.
“Oh,” he drawls, smirk deepening, “it’s serious.”
I drop my head with a bitter laugh, rubbing the tension from the back of my neck.
“Yeah. Sure. Not that it fucking matters. I need distance—miles of it. Last thing Pom needs is my special brand of chaos burning her life to ashes.”
Dillon crosses his arms, smugness saturating every pore. “Funny way to keep your distance, man. You’re so wrapped around this girl, you’d sooner sever your nutsack than let her go.”
“One,” I growl, lifting a finger, “not all of us manage just fine without our nutsack, unlike you. And two,” I add another finger, voice roughening, “I don’t need complications. I need her gone.”
“And three,” Dillon flips me the bird, “you’re a fucking liar.” He flicks a business card toward me. “You wouldn’t have handed her breadcrumbs if you genuinely wanted her out of your life.”
He holds out his hand to help me up.
I clasp it, begrudgingly.
“Welp.” Dillon adjusts his sleeve with exaggerated flair. “Are you going after Riley, or am I?”
“What?”
“She’s hot, sweet, and can actually tell us apart from ten paces. The woman’s a keeper.” Dillon grins, utterly shameless. “And since I’m guessing an Eiffel Tower-type situationship is totally off the table, because neither of us knows how to fucking share…what? Rock, paper, scissors for her?”
“Only if your bedtime routine ends with my hands tightening around your neck.” Exasperation strips away the last scraps of my resistance.
Fuck it.
“Just…tell me where she is.”
“Exactly where forbidden fruit always is. Sitting on a pedestal, ripe and juicy and begging for the right person to take a bite.”
With an obnoxious after-you flourish, Dillon pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t keep her waiting too long.”
He saunters away as I stand, alone, staring at the door, every instinct on fire, burning me alive with a single, brutal choice.
Stay, and carve my sins into her soul.
Or leave, and carve her absence from mine.