25. Dante
Dante
I ’m barely hanging on to this conversation.
Cormac Keenan’s voice grates like rusted screws twisting through bone. “You want this deal, gasúr , then I run the shots.”
And his old-school Gaelic jab—roughly translating to ‘boy’ but layered thick with disrespect—isn’t fucking lost on me.
My grip tightens on the phone, and I try not to crush it like the last one.
I’m after an alliance. A foothold on territory. And answers. But even I have limits. “You call the shots,” I seethe out. “For one night.”
“I want my concierge,” he adds casually, the demand heavy enough to break bones.
It lands hard, cornering me. He thinks he’s got me over on a barrel. Not even close.
I’ll play the last ace up my sleeve. To protect what’s mine. “Fine. But my bouncer stays. He vets everyone who steps foot inside. No exceptions.”
“You expect my guests to wait in line?”
“No,” I reply evenly, patience thinning faster than Antarctic ice. “Your guests are vetted ahead of time. It’s their plus-ones, Keegan.”
I can’t afford the stain of underage girls being auctioned off in a club branded with my name. Growing D’Angelo territory means keeping our name off the goddamned front page.
“A scandal draws unwanted attention to us both,” I grind out.
I could kill another miserable hour bartering. Risk burning down the fragile bridge we’ve barely built.
Honestly, I’d rather blow off my kneecap than spend another minute trapped in this endless negotiation.
I glance at my watch and sweeten the deal.
“I’ll even toss in my own black necklace.”
The ultimate no-holds-barred necklace. A leash granting the winner absolute freedom to indulge every sick, twisted, depraved fantasy on whichever poor, unfortunate girl lands beneath them—for as long as they fucking please.
Or at least as long as she survives.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Mateo’s harsh whisper is a punch to the gut.
I cut him a lethal glare, mouthing, “Shut the fuck up.”
“You actually have one?” Keenan presses, intrigued.
My hesitation unlocks, decision made. “Yes.”
Exactly as expected, he doesn’t miss a beat. “Done.”
The line goes dead.
About fucking time.
I look up at Dillon and Mateo, eyes bulging from their sockets.
Dillon’s punch lands on my arm, hard enough to bruise bone. “This violates everything we’ve built. Everything we stand for.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I rub my arm, glaring.
Mateo looks ready to swing next.
My narrowed glare—a silent promise of irreparable harm to his balls—stops him cold.
He shakes his head instead.
Disgust. Disappointment. Anger.
They’re somehow worse than any punch he’s ever thrown.
“What the actual fuck, Dante?”
“The Keenans have answers about our father’s disappearance,” I say quietly. Desperately. “They control every gateway, every road to the truth. Until now, each one’s been sealed behind steel barricades and razor wire.”
“This isn’t you,” Mateo’s voice slices deeper than it should.
My voice hardens, resolute. “We needed a door. I just kicked one wide fucking open.”
Dillon stares at me, every ounce of his torment a reflection of my own. It’s brutal, seeing my darkest demons carved so clearly onto his face—my guilt, my shame, my desperation—all of it staring back at me, daring me to fucking blink.
So I do.
“It’s under control,” I lie through my teeth.
It’s not. Not even close.
More like barely chained insanity. One breath from imploding.
“Really?” Mateo’s voice sharpens to bitter disbelief. “Tossing some nameless, faceless girl to wolves and crossing your fingers she survives?” He crosses both sets of fingers for effect.
Dillon’s hand lands onto my shoulder. “This isn’t you. We ripped that necklace off Trinity’s neck after her attack. Who knows how long she’d been hunted? Or have you conveniently forgotten?”
“I. Fucking. Found. Her.” I shove his hand off, control splintering in every direction. “Not we. Me. I know exactly what’s at stake.” I suck in a breath, battling the fury coiled tight in my chest. “Nothing will happen. If push comes to shove, I’ll bid on the girl myself.”
“Oh, right.” Dillon scoffs, sarcasm bleeding from each syllable.
“Because that won’t send red fucking flares to every faction in the city.
” His eyes narrow, suspicion warring with concern.
“You’re in a devil’s deal with zero leverage, scotch-taped together with nothing more than your inflated ego and thirst for blood. ”
“Two of my finest qualities.” I fire back dryly.
Mateo’s patience snaps clean in half. “Cut the shit, Dante. Tell us what you’re really planning.”
I’m planning my own death.
In excruciating detail.
Because my life’s become a ticking bomb—and time’s about up.
But I don’t say that.
I just shrug, casually, like it’s nothing. “Who says I’m planning anything?”
“We’re stronger together.” Mateo’s right—I know he is. But admitting my death is the inevitable finish line…
Either they tie me up, duct-tape my mouth shut, and stuff me into the trunk of my own damn car— for my own good, of course—or they insist on joining me.
Three D’Angelo deaths instead of one?
My uncle and Zver rejoicing over the happy accident over premium vodka. I can almost see it.
It’ll already be bad enough for my family to mourn my sorry ass. Three would push it too fucking far.
Even for me.
Not that they’d ever agree to my plan.
And even if they did, dragging them into hell with me isn’t a fucking option.
Mateo snorts bitterly. “Whatever you’re planning, it’s asinine, reckless, and probably going to get you killed.”
Not probably. Definitely.
A timid knock interrupts, dragging our attention to the door. “Come in.”
Raja steps cautiously inside, clutching the contract in her blood-red talons. The hesitation in her eyes is new, irritating as hell, and fraying my last nerve. “Tell me she’s gone.”
“Uh, I can’t.” She delicately places the contract on the desk, backing away as if it’ll explode. Or I will. “She signed it.”
“She what?” I press my temple. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Dillon lunges forward, tearing the contract from my grip.
His eyes gleam wickedly as he skims the page, disbelief melting into filthy delight. “Fuck me sideways—‘Complete and explicit surrender, including but not limited to bondage, spanking, merciless edging, filthy outfits, ruthless brat-breaking, and forced begging on all fours.’”
Mateo chokes on a laugh. “Wait—Kennedy’s baby sister agreed to what?”
Dillon waves a hand, fighting back laughter.
“It gets better. ‘Owner shall be addressed exclusively as ‘His Grace,’ as signee willingly accepts erotic punishment delivered via bare hand, belts, floggers, riding crops, anal beads, rocket dildos, or a vintage silver hairbrush crafted explicitly with a smooth, flat back for discipline and a handle designed solely for her dirty pleasure. Or, should His Grace feel particularly creative, a pickleball racket.’”
By this point, they’re both howling, doubled over.
“Pickleball racket?” I echo softly, dangerously, heat surging beneath my skin. Oh, I’ll show her exactly how creative I can get with a pickleball racket.
Dillon holds up a finger, wheezing. “Mandatory safewords listed: ‘Banana Flambé,’ ‘Control Freak,’ and ‘Yes, sir.’”
Mateo doubles over, tears streaking down his face. “Holy shit, Dante. Touché. You’ve finally met your match.”
Dillon shrugs casually, eyes glinting wickedly. “Hey, never kink-shame the nobility.”
At the thought of punishing Pom, my cock hardens painfully—so rigid it feels like it might snap clean off.
Which is exactly why I don’t immediately rise and snatch the contract back.
“If you value your hands,” I warn, “drop the contract and leave. Now.”
They freeze, recognizing the lethal sincerity in my tone. Dillon reluctantly sets the contract down on my desk, eyes wary. Mateo trails after him, still shaking from hysterical laughter.
I wait until the door clicks shut before grabbing the contract, flipping through the pages until one devastating clause brands itself into my brain.
Hymen: Intact.
My pulse slams to a violent halt.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Hmm . Then again, this is Riley.
She could be lying.
Teasing me. Taunting me. Torturing me with visions of pinning her down, driving deep, splitting her open as she screams, “Yes, Your fucking Grace,” in defiant surrender.
But what if she’s not lying?
My cock strains painfully against my zipper, blood roaring savagely in my ears, one hundred percent certain it won’t enter her without obliterating that fragile cherry into a million delicious pieces.
The ultimate fucking turn-on slams headfirst into an iron door marked No Entry .
Fucking fuck… fuck .