39. Dante
Dante
“M mm,” she breathes, her hot honeyed rasp paired with nails digging into my skin like she’s mining for gold. “So tense.”
Her nails drag across my neck. It’s not seductive. More like chiseling cement off a murder weapon.
Where the fuck did they find this one?
This one—because her name will never cross my lips. Didn’t ask. Couldn’t care less. Names are reserved for things you plan to keep, and the only thing permanent here is my irritation.
And by they , I mean my dear brothers. Enzo, probably.
This reeks of his trademark help me help you bullshit.
He thinks he’s doing me a favor, clueless bastard.
Completely oblivious to the fact my every waking thought is consumed by a girl he’d never approve of—and sure as hell wouldn’t let me live long enough to regret.
Not that survival matters much at the moment.
Blondie strutted in wearing a bright red smirk with a card neatly tucked into the strap of her microscopic dress. An invitation to a party I have no fucking intention of attending.
Don’t be a loaded gun with nowhere to shoot.
Consider her target practice.
You’re welcome.
Subtle as a fucking sledgehammer.
Sadly, they have a point.
It’s been months since I’ve touched any woman but Riley.
Touched myself?
Religiously. Twice a day, like a sinner working overtime.
But what fucking choice do I have?
The only woman capable of holding my interest is the one I absolutely can’t touch.
Every time those sharp green eyes and criminally full lips invade my mind without permission, I shove her away. Slam the door. Deadbolt it. Wrap the whole sick fantasy in chains.
My dick pulses, angry and impatient.
Okay, maybe picturing her chained beneath me, begging, isn’t exactly helping.
Though upping my twice-daily penance to three times might do the trick.
I sip my scotch, letting icy logic chill the fire racing through my veins, reminding myself exactly why I’m poison for her.
She’s young.
Too innocent.
Too…
Forbidden fruit.
Except my brain—sadistic fucker that it is—drags up an image of her in my bed. That goddamn t-shirt. Softly molded to every curve from her perfect tits down to her criminally tempting ass. Thick waves of hair I’d kill to wrap around my fist…
And just like that—fuck me—I’m painfully hard.
Not ideal, considering two crime lords sit directly across from me, droning on in a monotonous hum of blah, blah , fucking blah .
Deals. Blood money. The usual territorial dick-measuring contests.
I shift, uncomfortable as fuck.
Focus .
Nothing they say sticks.
Apparently, my brain prefers torturing itself with visions of Riley rather than defusing the live grenade ticking right in front of me.
Hey, asshole… Priorities .
Blondie’s skinny fingers trail down my arm, brushing a little too close to my tattoo.
I swat her away.
Seriously—when the fuck did I become the guy who rejects no-names and no-commitments?
Pathetic.
Disgusted, I shake my head. The fuck is wrong with me?
“You hate that idea?” Roman cuts in, his voice hard-edged and impatient.
Huh? Shit. What?
I school my features, forcing neutrality into my tone. “No. We just… need privacy.”
Turning sharply to Blondie—who’s now softly humming, oblivious to the fact she’s swimming in shark-infested waters—I snap, “Leave us.”
She shrugs like this is just another Tuesday, then saunters out, hips swaying like she’s auditioning for a role in someone else’s wet dream.
Every man at the table eye-fucks her on her way to the door.
All the men except me.
I exhale. Finally.
The door clicks shut behind her. I nod to Roman, like I hadn’t just missed an hour’s worth of conversation.
“Proceed.”
Roman launches back into whatever the hell he was saying while I try to catch up. My seat at the head of the table feels heavier than usual, flanked by two factions that would happily slit each other’s throats if it meant tipping the scales in their favor.
Yet here they are. Predators in Brioni suits, sipping aged scotch with all the civility of toddlers at high tea.
I take a slow sip, hyperaware that one wrong word—one wrong glance—and this polite gathering becomes a fucking bloodbath.
I should be zoning in on the tension, watching for the first fracture. Playing the warlord. Instead, I’m sitting here, distracted as hell, trying to yank my head out of my ass and back into the game.
I turn my full attention to Roman Vasiliev—Bratva’s mouthpiece for the day.
Expensive taste in cars. Dirt-cheap taste in women. Ruthless and sadistic with a mind built for expansion and a calculator where his conscience should be.
Every move calculated. Every cut precision-crafted to claim loyalty, seize territory, and bleed everyone else dry, boots firmly pressed on their throats.
Which suits me just fine. None of us are here to gab about fucking reality TV or braid friendship bracelets.
And to my right—Emilio Vargas, Valverde cartel’s golden boy.
He’s perfected the diligent soldier act. But beneath the careful facade? Methodical. Patient. A viper, coiled and still, ready to strike without so much as a warning hiss.
Quiet confidence gleams behind dark, razor-sharp eyes. A Swiss watch for every day of the week and the kind of practiced smile that appears just as he’s sliding a knife between your ribs.
The years he’s spent biding his time. Waiting. Watching. Hand steady on the blade until the precise moment arrives to gut the current faction and claim the bloodied throne.
He also happens to be Enzo’s favorite poker buddy—mostly because he loses often and pays in Krugerrands.
They trade torture techniques like fucking baseball cards and workshop inventive methods of agony in their sick little torturer support group.
These men are cold. Merciless. Cutthroat.
And oddly predictable—not just in the way their strikes guarantee devastation, but in ways I can twist like a blade to my advantage.
And then there’s me. Straitjacketing my homicidal urges, playing therapist to psychopaths.
What they don’t know is that I didn’t invite them here for scotch, small talk, and a little light wargaming.
The photo I traded for a black necklace—and what little remained of my soul—makes one thing crystal fucking clear:
Their men were at the station the day my father disappeared.
And I’m here to make sure they pay dearly for every goddamn second.
Which is why patience, for me, isn’t a virtue. It’s a strategy. A blade tucked reluctantly behind my back—waiting for the perfect moment to strike.