42. Dante
Dante
F uck, is this meeting ever going to end?
My bouncer pings my cell again—for the hundredth goddamn time. Clearly, “Do Not Disturb” translates to “Blow Up My Phone Until I Kill You.”
Roman’s voice slices through my irritation, sharp enough to peel skin. “We had nothing to do with your father’s disappearance.”
His tone might sound calm, but the threat beneath is unmistakable—Don’t fuck with us.
Across the table, Emilio smirks, leaning back lazily. “Neither did we.”
My voice stays cool, deceptively calm—each word sharpened to draw blood.
“Yes, my father’s disappearance ranks right up there with Hoffa and Amelia fucking Earhart. But here’s how this goes: You both want D’Angelo protection—especially now that we’re in bed with the Irish. Fine. Then I want what’s mine. My father’s location.”
Roman’s calculating stare turns lethal, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. Emilio’s cocky smirk slips, his carefully built mask fracturing to reveal the irritation simmering beneath.
“We don’t have it,” Emilio snaps coldly. “And that sure as fuck wasn’t our arrangement with Enzo.”
“Enzo’s not here.” I say, deceptively calm. “ I am. So either we all walk away breathing, or nobody fucking does.”
Roman’s sneer darkens. “So the rumors are true—you’ve finally fucking cracked. Look at you. Even more unhinged than Enzo, and twice as reckless.”
I lean forward, eyes locked onto him, calm as a loaded gun. “Keep talking, Roman, and I’ll sever every port you have until your pipeline bleeds dry. Then you’ll learn exactly how fucking unhinged I can be.”
He laughs, the sound sharp and hollow. “Antonio vanished nearly six years ago without a fucking trace. If you’re banking on divine intervention, better find yourself a priest—or dig a deeper grave.”
“Your men were there.”
Roman erupts from his seat, fist slamming the table so hard the room jolts silent. “Careful,” he growls, menace carving every word. “Accuse me again, and you’d better be ready to bleed.”
His switchblade snaps open, serrated edge gleaming inches from my throat.
But when he freezes, it’s not caution in his eyes.
It’s the kind of realization that feels like stepping on a landmine.
My Glock nestles comfortably, dead-center against his chest.
“Careful, Dante,” he mutters, ice-cold bravado undermined by the nervous trickle of sweat sliding down his temple. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
I arch a brow, tension crackling between us like jumper cables hitting a wet battery. “Accusations aren’t my style. Bullets and bloodshed? Absolutely.”
Slowly, Roman sinks back down.
I redirect their attention sharply to the page.
Emilio picks it up, eyeing it skeptically. “The fuck do you expect us to do with this?”
Blankly, I stare. “I don’t know—maybe fucking look into it? Unless you’d prefer I shove it up your ass?”
Roman snaps a shot, movements measured, barely concealing his rage. “Six years is a long goddamn time to chase ghosts.”
“Would it feel long if it was your father?” Roman’s jaw tightens, grief darkening his features.
My gaze slices to Emilio, cutting deeper. “Or your brother?”
For a heartbeat, Emilio’s mask fractures, revealing the raw wound beneath—a loss he’ll never stitch closed.
Good. They fucking get it.
“It’s not information you’re after,” Emilio rasps, voice suddenly raw. “It’s revenge.”
“That too,” I say with a nod.
Roman straightens his tie, forcing composure back into place. “And if we get your answers? We handle our own.”
“No. Not this time.” My tone leaves zero room for debate. “You want D’Angelo protection and alliance? This is your price. Anyone with answers goes straight to Dillon—alive—for our personal brand of justice.”
They don’t like it.
Good.
Their factions will fucking hate it. Even better.
But right now, my give-a-shit meter is shattered beyond repair, and the last thing I need are innocent fall guys tortured to death. I’ve got enough blood on my hands as it is.
“Why not you?” Emilio asks.
Because I won’t be around.
I stand, not bothering to answer.
“I’ve credited each of you a hundred grand tonight, plus VIP access to my club for the year.” I toss the bone carelessly—just enough distraction to keep them from torching this place on their way out.
“Your club?” Roman scoffs under his breath.
“Care to repeat that louder?” I say.
His sneer twists openly now, ugly and spiteful. “Heard you handed the keys to the fucking Irish.”
My smirk grows, masking the burn beneath. “For tonight only. They needed discretion. In return, friends of the D’Angelos enjoy safe passage through Keenan territory. But if you’d prefer to roll the dice without my protection, feel free to test your fucking luck.”
Roman knows I’ve outmaneuvered him—again.
That twisted look on his face?
It’s the sweet agony of a man choking on his pride, forced to swallow the fact that he needs me far more than I’ll ever need him.
And that probably burns hotter than his cheap prison ink—or the scorching reminder of last year’s STD scare.
Yeah, the shit I wish I didn’t fucking know.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.” I don’t bother with handshakes or hollow smiles. Those rituals died with my father. They didn’t save him, and they sure as fuck won’t save me.
Blood. Fear. Ruthless fucking power. That’s how I rule. For now, at least.
As soon as I’m out the door, I lose my tie and rip open the top buttons of my shirt.
Now that shitshow’s done, there’s no use pretending the blood wasn’t dripping from my hands the entire goddamn time—or that my life isn’t seconds away from a spectacular, fiery c’est la vie, mother fuckers.
Demons never die quietly.
And neither do I.