30. Dante
Dante
V engeance is a ruthless bitch.
Sure, I can shove her aside—days, weeks, hell, sometimes even months. But when she returns, she slips under my skin, pumping pure venom straight into my bloodstream.
She won’t leave.
Or maybe I won’t let her.
Not until she’s torn through every last part of me—mind, heart, and whatever’s left of my soul. And apparently, not until I’ve flung myself headfirst into the next chaotic fuck-fest.
It’s been days since I’ve felt even remotely human. Days since Riley’s body molded against mine. Since she warmed my bed, slipped inside my veins, and rewired my fucking brain.
Without her, reality frays along the edges. I lose sight of who the hell I am. What monster I’m supposed to be.
Lofty fantasies of a girl wearing nothing but my shirt and those goddamned bunny ears made me weak. For one reckless second, I’m almost convinced that I could be something more.
Happy.
Whole.
Hers.
But then one dumb fuck has to poke the bear, and all my senses snaps violently back into place.
Enzo might be the God of War.
But me?
I’m the God of Destruction. Baptized in violence. Death’s fucking muse.
Delivering happy endings like a fucking Amazon truck? I don’t think so.
I breeze past Chio without breaking stride. The hulking mountain of muscle rushes to catch up.
Wisely, he knows better than to handle this himself. “Sir, it’s?—”
“I know,” I growl.
My phone buzzed minutes ago, alerting me that some asshole made himself nice and cozy in my office.
So yeah, my mood’s hovering somewhere between murderous and nuclear.
One step through the door, and the stench hits me head-on. Pure arrogance with smoky undertones of Macallan 50.
With anyone else, I’d have already taken an ear. Clean shot, zero hesitation—like target practice at a Mr. Potato Head shooting range.
But he’s a Keenan.
And whether I like it or not, his father and I shook hands. Signed the final contract yesterday. So despite my trigger finger itching like a junkie with a half-cooked spoon, I will not be the one to fuck this up.
Declan looks up at me, all slithering angles and mafia arrogance. Hollow-eyed and wiry, he borders on gaunt. It’s obvious his new diet excludes carbs, but not coke.
He’s also low on brains, high on unchecked rage, and the only reason he’s still breathing is because, for now, he’s useful.
He smirks around a sip from the two-hundred-thousand-dollar bottle, lounging in my chair, one mud-caked shoe desecrating my desk.
Oddly enough, my spirits lift.
The fact he’s drinking my brother’s prized scotch? Fucking priceless.
It moves him right out of the my problem category and dumps him squarely into Enzo’s.
And if there’s one thing my bloodthirsty brother excels at, it’s reminding arrogant pissants that having skin is a privilege, not a right.
Another sip, and he greets me with a lazy grin. “Ah, Dante. Nice of you to join me. Drink?”
I wave him off. “I’m good.”
I’m not stupid—or suicidal—enough to touch Enzo’s scotch. When my brother inevitably loses his shit over its disappearance, I’ll at least be able to swear, with a straight face, that it wasn’t me.
Not that I’m afraid of Enzo—or any of my brothers. It’s their petty-ass revenge I hate.
Muriatic acid on my fine Italian shoes.
Horse piss in my cars—plural.
And the grand finale? A pint of glitter in my underwear drawer.
Fucking glitter. The STD of craft supplies. No matter how many washes, it never goes away.
Yeah. Lesson learned.
Declan drains the glass, exhaling a satisfied sigh. “Figured since we’re practically family now, you wouldn’t mind if I dropped by to chat, bráthair .”
Brother? I don’t think so.
He helps himself to another pour, and I stare, mystified. That the Keenan’s haven’t offed him themselves is beyond me.
Posing as a twenty-something frat boy to stalk fresh prey at colleges makes him a neon-flashing liability, practically begging for attention from the cops.
A walking liability—a dumpster fire on autoplay. And untouchable.
He carries the Keenan name. The money. The loyalty. And, the protection.
My protection, thanks to our cozy little family arrangement.
So the man with the street value of a used condom gets to live.
For now.
With a grand flourish, he swirls his glass, sending a generous splash of booze onto my desk.
I don’t react. I simply breathe through it.
“I just want to make sure there isn’t any trouble between us,” he says, his accent thicker with scotch.
I step closer, eying the mess he made. “There’s already trouble.”
Instantly, his smirk falters, and his foot drops to the floor with a dull thud. Both hands shoot up in a half-assed display of surrender. “Fine. No need to get your panties in a twist, big guy.”
Chuckling, he rises—or tries to—stumbling over his own colossal feet, catching himself just before he faceplants.
Pathetic .
I shake my head, and slide into the seat. A deliberate move, just so he remembers exactly who’s in charge.
“Your father and I have a deal,” I remind him, my voice ice-cold. “As long as the Keenans keep up their end of the bargain, I’ll keep up mine.”
He downs the last of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like the classless prick he is. “I need a favor.”
I exhale slowly, patience thinning like a frayed live wire.
Snatching the pocket square from his suit, I calmly wipe the spilled booze off my desk. “I don’t do favors.”
“You’ll do one for me.”
I ball up the ruined handkerchief and drop it into his empty glass. “I doubt that.”
Ignoring him, and hoping he’ll finally take the fucking hint, I shift my focus to the monitors, skimming the endless flood of RSVPs choking my inbox.
Bright, beautiful elite rubbing shoulders with the most ruthless, lethal players in Chicago’s underworld.
Fuck .
Did the Keenans post this shit on TikTok?
This is the opposite of low-key. One of several conditions I had.
Then again, blood oaths aren’t exactly laden with fine print.
Declan’s creepy-ass form lingers a beat too long before slamming the empty Lalique lowball onto my desk with a deliberate thud.
“You’ll regret this, Dante.”
I don’t even pretend to listen, letting his words fade into the background static of my own thoughts.
He turns slowly, strolling toward the door as if he’s got all the time in the world.
I bet he’d hustle if a bullet kissed him in the ass.
“Fine,” he calls casually over his shoulder. “I’ll just be on me merry way…and you’ll never find out what really happened to your dear old dad.”
My eyes snap up.
Now the prick has my full attention.