31. Dante
Dante
“W hat did you just say?” I don’t blink. Just…wait.
Declan doesn’t flinch. He’s either fearless or fucking brain-dead. My money’s firmly on the latter.
He tips his head, an amused flicker darkening those hollow eyes. “You heard me.”
Goddamn. This guy has all the survival instincts of a goldfish sunbathing on a sushi counter.
The mere suggestion Declan Keenan has intel about my father’s disappearance makes my fists clench until my knuckles crack.
I’m about ten seconds from wiring his tongue to a car battery and frying answers straight from his skull.
But I don’t.
Because I’m not the reckless, blood-drunk savage I was last week.
Today, I have self-control.
Barely.
The last thing I need is the Keenan clan breathing down my neck, hunting for an excuse to torch our agreement and dial up the war.
My brother was right. I have zero fucking leverage.
Which makes it about as smart as playing Russian roulette with a half-loaded gun.
Not that I had a choice.
Still, if this blows up, I’ll never hear the end of it.
Actually, I won’t.
Because I’ll be fucking dead.
I sit back and blow out a slow breath.
Facts are facts: Declan owing me anything is about as useful as a condom in a nun’s nightstand. But a Keenan—any Keenan—in my debt?
That’s power.
That’s the kind of leverage money can’t buy.
I choke down my conscience—the screeching banshee in my skull—and calmly say, “I’m listening.”
Declan’s lips twitch into a smug little half-smirk. “I hear you have a black necklace.”
Shit. I should’ve seen this clusterfuck of a dumpster fire from a mile away.
My arrangement with his father covered arms routes, financial backing, and a rock-solid non-aggression clause between our factions—plus exclusive use of my club for one night.
No interference. No surprises.
And yes, one black necklace. But definitely not for his rapist fucktard of a son.
And since junior wants it now, I haven’t exactly locked down every safeguard.
You would have, if your dick hadn’t been so distracted.
Shut up.
Most security measures are in place, but not all.
A classic Declan move—fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t. Right up the goddamned ass.
My finger taps a slow, deliberate rhythm against my desk as I weigh my limited, shitty options.
They only need my club because they’re suddenly desperate for a neutral venue to host their little auction—since their original plans went spectacularly up in smoke.
Courtesy of an anonymous tip. FBI raid included.
You’re welcome.
And it worked. After months of blowing me off, I suddenly became the Keenan’s fucking ride-or-die.
For a price.
But I can’t just stand by and let Declan slap a diamond-studded leash around some poor, unsuspecting victim’s neck.
Can I?
Frustration boils beneath my skin. I lock it away behind the ironclad D’Angelo mask.
So many roads to hell.
Decisions, decisions…
Flicking a dismissive wave, I pair it with a bored shrug and a look that clearly says why the fuck are you still breathing my air?
“Your father and I have a deal. The club’s yours. But as for the necklace? Try the concierge.”
Declan bristles, face instantly darkening with rage. “I’m a Keenan,” he spits. “I don’t go through fucking concierges.”
My lips slowly curl into a smirk. “What’s the matter, Bráthair ?” I taunt softly. “She already turn you down?”
Nostrils flared, his fists thrust skyward. It’s like watching a drunk demon toddler mid-tantrum. “She fed me some bullshit about ‘the woman chooses’… stupid cunt,” he snarls.
Interesting.
If daddy’s own concierge shot him down, they must still be scrubbing bloodstains from Declan’s last disaster.
The Keenans care about women’s safety about as much as they care about global warming and the tampon tax—which is to say, not at all. Clearly, Declan’s last fuckup bled their coffers far more than they’d prefer.
And if there’s one thing they do care about, it’s their money.
“You know I’m good for it,” Declan presses, his voice an irritating whine as he jabs a finger in my direction. “And I know you have one.”
Right on both counts.
Part of me wants to reason with him.
But the devil on my shoulder has a simpler take—the who gives a fuck? approach.
A Keenan’s debt is mine to wield.
To bend. To own. To exploit.
Fully transferrable upon my death.
But then, there’s her.
A soft, persistent angel whispering in my ear with the subtlety of a fucking wrecking ball.
The one voice I can never silence.
Trinity.
My sister.
The image of her battered body threads viciously through my thoughts, barbed wire slicing over flesh.
I don’t even have to glance down to see the blood on my hands. I feel it—slick warmth oozing down my ice-cold fingers.
A permanent fracture etched into my mind from the moment I found her—discarded like trash, crumpled behind a filthy dumpster. The black necklace around her throat was so tight it left deep, angry marks.
Because she’d been sold more than once.
Blood drips down my desk. I watch it fall.
And just like that, my urge to own a Keenan evaporates.
“If the concierge said no, it’s a no.” My voice is steel-edged. Brutal. Final.
Fury briefly ignites across Declan’s face, swiftly replaced by a sly, unsettling grin. “I said I’d make it worth your while. And I’m a man of my word.”
Without room for another refusal, he yanks a folded sheet of paper from his pocket—an image—and slaps it down onto the desk between us.
From Declan, I expect something predictably twisted—blackmail, porn, my driver’s dog held hostage.
But this?
This is… hell, I don’t even fucking know.
A bored, irritated sigh escapes my chest. “This interests me because…?”
Patronizing as hell, he clucks his tongue. “Don’t you recognize it?”
“No.”
Satisfaction flickers across Declan’s brow. “Then I’ll use small words so you can keep up.” He taps the image again, lazy and deliberate.
I picture the sharp, satisfying glide of steel slicing clean across his throat—one precise jab to the jugular would end this little tête-à-tête perfectly.
“That’s O’Hare Terminal,” he says. “That’s the date. And that”—he drags his finger to the center—“that’s your poor papa, minutes before he vanished.”
A blast of adrenaline locks my breath in my lungs.
Declan leans closer, his voice a seductive whisper dripping with cruelty. “And we’ve got it on very good authority that whoever took him…bought Trinity, too.”
Emotions blacken, dark rage flooding every hollow place, every vein, every fracture inside me.
Declan knows exactly which nerve to press.
How deep to cut.
How desperate I am—how easily I’d trade what little remains of my soul to become his perfect weapon.
Is one innocent girl an even trade for my father’s return?
For vengeance, justice— blood —for my sister?
Declan’s mouth curls into a slow, knowing smirk, savoring every second of my torment. “Interested now?”
God help me…
I am.