32. Dante
Dante
S atan was once an angel. I was never so delusional.
I’ve spent years turning the screws, literally, on men who screamed themselves hoarse. All to extract every last clue about our father’s disappearance.
Years drowning in terminal footage.
Every camera. Every angle. Every goddamned millisecond.
And somehow, I’ve never seen this?
Oh, and by the way—not one goddamn whisper that our father’s abductor and Trinity’s attacker might be the same monster.
Fuck. Clearly, I need sharper thumbscrews.
My eyes narrow, locking onto blurred figures against an all-too-familiar backdrop.
Is it fake?
No. I feel it. A savage instinct, deep in my gut. It hits like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Hope.
“Look here, Bráthair ,” he taunts softly. “Recognize them?”
And with it, everything snaps into place.
Fog lifts from the bay of my mind, sharpening the world into razor-edged clarity.
Two syndicates.
Five men. Front, back, sides. A box-in—slicing off every exit like a noose tightening around a throat.
Did my father see it coming? Did he sense the trap closing? Slipped onto a plane, thinking he’d outsmarted them? Outrun them?
But then what?
He never stepped off that plane. Never touched solid ground again. Just… vanished . Like a goddamned alien abduction. Or a Harlan Coben novel.
Just. Fucking. Gone.
My gaze snaps back to Declan’s bloodshot stare, gleaming with smug triumph. “Well, Dante? Is that worth something to you?”
No…
It’s worth everything.
The edges of my platinum poker face melt away—just enough.
Declan’s grin widens, confirming exactly what I already know…
He’s got me.
I’ll pay any price. Even the one he’s already named.
But that doesn’t mean I’m handing over everything for fucking table scraps.
“A black necklace for the image,” I say coldly. “And you still owe me.”
Declan pounds a fist against his heart, pure mob arrogance wrapped in old-school bravado. “Done.”
My gaze drops to his hand, catching raw, angry flesh beneath a freshly peeled scab—a flaming shamrock branded brutally deep into his skin.
Irish resilience etched in blood and fire. A mark that’s far from decorative ink.
It means junior here pissed off his father one too many times and got tossed into the pit. Him against a syndicate enforcer.
Well, color me stunned. The fucker survived.
I guess Enzo was right. Size doesn’t matter with scorpions. Cornered, and every last one strikes to kill.
“Well?” Declan snaps. “You want it?”
When I hesitate too long, he lifts the page, flicks a lighter from his pocket, and holds the flame irritatingly close to the edge. By the frayed corners of the yellowing paper, I’m guessing it’s the only copy he has. “Or not?”
Goddammit, it’s infuriating.
I’ve got a solid foot and at least sixty pounds on him. Yet I can’t just snap his neck and snatch the damn photo.
Because with the Keenans, consequences aren’t slaps on the wrist or friendly warnings.
They’re more like kicking a hornet’s nest in a broom closet—chaotic, relentless, and more guaranteed ass pain than they’re fucking worth.
I slap mental duct tape on my trigger finger—and my fucking conscience—and force out a tight nod. “We have a deal.”
Declan gets the hint, blowing out the lighter.
Without hesitation, I press a finger beneath the desk. The biometric scanner hums to life, and the side panel whispers open with a soft, mechanical click.
There, swaddled in velvet, lies the last sliver of my humanity: one black diamond necklace, exactly as requested.
Hell unleashed for someone.
Salvation for me.
Isn’t this why I bought the Inferno in the first place?
My throne.
My cage.
My fucking penance.
To own every whisper. Every secret. Basically, own every last fucker who ever stepped foot inside its doors.
I clasp the necklace hard. Can I really do this?
“Ahem.” Declan clears his throat, checking his watch as if he’s suddenly got somewhere better to be.
Either I’m doing this or I’m not.
If I don’t, the little prick will just find another way—and that photograph, possibly the only one in existence, becomes dust.
Without another thought, I toss the necklace at his chest.
He catches it effortlessly, clutching it with both hands, grinning like a kid snagging his first home-run ball.
A blade twists violently at my heart.
I don’t have a choice , I remind myself.
The lie slips past my defenses, driving the knife another merciless inch deeper into my chest.
Declan spills the necklace into his palm, eyes gleaming. Then, with all the reverence of a teenager minutes after jerking off, he pockets it, throwing me a smirking nod.
“Pleasure doing business with you, bráthair .”
I swear to fucking God, if he calls me brother one more time?—
He stumbles, making a sloppy beeline for the door. In three steps, I cut him off, blocking his path.
He blinks, confusion flashing across his face.
“The photo, Declan.”
“Ah, right.” He fumbles in his pocket, pulling out the crumpled page and reluctantly handing it over. He pats my shoulder—then swiftly yanks his hand back as my glare sharpens dangerously.
“Zver’s making an appearance,” he adds, straightening his lapels.
“Is that so? Funny, I didn’t see an RSVP.”
“The man has an appetite for fresh meat and pays a pretty penny for it. Mark my words, he’ll show.”
Zver always does.
Sightings of the Russian mean twice the work for me.
Like Bigfoot encounters or men in black, eyewitness accounts are rare, fleeting, and so riddled with contradictions, you can’t even be sure they’re describing the same man—or a man at all.
Declan leans in, twisted curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Ever wonder what happens to the women?”
“The women?”
“I’d trade a brick of blow to see what the sick fuck does with them. Most vanish without a whisper.” A twisted smirk crawls across his lips. “Maybe I’ll ask him for pointers.”
My tone stays flat, stripped of emotion. “With everyone behind masks, I doubt you’ll recognize him.”
His body explodes into laughter. The wild, jagged kind best muffled by padded walls.
It echoes around the room, clawing beneath my skin long after Declan stumbles out the door.
When silence finally settles, I exhale sharply and call the one man who doesn’t want to hear from me.
One ring, and the line picks up. No greeting, no small talk. Just a heavy, expectant sigh.
“Zver,” I say.
Silence.
Then, Father Marc gives a clipped, cold reply. “Zver is the bane of my existence.”
“He’s coming, nonetheless. And if there’s one man who needs a come-to-Jesus meeting?—”
“Where?”
“Keenan’s Auction.” No date or time needed since the neighborhood priest hears everything. It’s a wonder the man’s ears haven’t melted off.
A longer silence this time.
I can practically hear the gears turning, calculating just how far out on the tightrope he’s wandered.
And how much further he’s willing to go. A question I ask myself every hour of every day.
“Fine,” is all he says. Then the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, rolling my shoulders, forcing down feelings I’d sworn were long dead.
Whatever hell I’ve just unleashed with that necklace, there’s no clawing back from it now.
With a slow inhale, I slip the phone into my pocket.
The air thickens around me, heavy enough that my head dips involuntarily. My gaze lands on the photo still clutched in my hand.
Antonio D’Angelo.
The ghost of our father stares back at me from the grainy image, frozen in bitter, accusing silence.
Grief floods my veins. First cold as steel, then searing, blistering molten lead.
I let it burn away every useless emotion until only one remains.
Wrath .