45. Dante
Dante
I let the scotch torch a hole straight through my fucking soul. Half a bottle in, and my conscience finally demands its pound of flesh.
I crossed the line.
I handed over the black necklace.
The same necklace that stole a week of Trinity’s life and replaced it with a never-ending nightmare.
That ripped away her memories.
Shredded her fucking sanity.
Broke. Her.
And I threw it away like it meant nothing.
To Declan fucking Keenan, of all people.
I might as well have handed razor blades to a psychopath with a note reading, Enjoy.
And for what?
My blurry vision tries—and fails—to focus as a knock pounds the door.
I ignore it. Busy drowning in scotch, here.
Two more knocks—louder, angrier this time. Because apparently, artwork is overrated and cracked plaster is the new décor.
Before I can bark at them to fuck off, the door swings wide open, permission be damned.
I lift my gaze from the scotch, which is almost gone, and land on Chio.
He fills the doorway like a human roadblock, a massive slab of muscle and barely leashed menace, though his normal zero fucks given persona is suddenly softer now.
His gaze veers from the nearly empty bottle to me, concern etched deep across his freakishly large brow.
I know exactly what he’s thinking.
One: I don’t drink unless it’s a special occasion. Control issues and all.
Two: He recognizes the bottle.
Yes, it’s Enzo’s.
And yes, Declan will be taking the blame for its tragic demise.
Chio clears his throat, cautiously. “A word, sir?” he asks, each syllable precise—like one wrong move could set off the ticking bomb staring him down.
“You.” I sway slightly, stabbing a finger toward him. “Aren’t supposed to be here. The other bouncer’s on.”
Because tonight promises to be the dumpster fire to end all dumpster fires, and the big dumb lug will inevitably die shielding me with his oversized, human-climbing-wall body.
And I don’t need another fucking ghost haunting my conscience.
Especially not Chio’s.
The other guy is disposable. A certified cut-and-run piece of shit with the loyalty of a flea.
“He called me,” Chio says flatly. “And I called you”—he checks his phone, holding up fingers one-by-one, counting—“fourteen times.” He pauses, voice bone-dry. “Or at least, I tried.”
“I know.” It wasn’t exactly subtle. Two of those times, Chio buzzed while Roman and I were exchanging death threats like candy hearts on Valentine’s Day.
Chio’s mouth flattens into a grim line—like he’s about to inform me a meteor smashed my car or one of my exes is claiming she’s pregnant. Again.
Which, for the record, would require immaculate fucking conception, given how long it’s been since I’ve touched any of them.
I let out a weary breath and roll my fingers impatiently, signaling him to spit it out. Honestly, at this point, what could possibly make tonight worse?
“There’s someone here,” he finally says, cautious as stepping through a minefield. “Someone you don’t want within ten miles of your club.”
Considering that could mean anyone—Trinity, my brothers, Agent Knox and his Fed entourage, or hell, even the fucking Pope—I just arch a brow. “I don’t pay you for twenty questions.”
“It’s your uncle, sir.”
Fuck.
The problem with Uncle Andre? He’s spent years cozying up inside the Keenans’ asses like their personal human bidet.
And since the Keenans currently own every molecule of air we’re breathing—at least for the next twelve miserable hours—there’s not a goddamn thing I can do to stop him from strolling right through my doors.
Except leave.
I check my watch.
Nope…not fucking time yet.
“If the Keenans approved him, it is what it fucking is,” I tell Chio, voice calm and steady on the surface, aggravated as hell beneath.
I toss back another swig of scotch, savoring the burn as it scrapes down my throat, smooth as liquid sandpaper.
Snatching a sticky note, I scrawl a simple message:
Declan Keenan drank this.
A dark, twisted smirk curls one side of my mouth as I roll it up and shove it deep into the empty bottle, leaving just enough of the tip exposed—a ticking time bomb with Enzo’s name written all fucking over it.
Patience, motherfuckers. Always a virtue.
“He didn’t come alone,” Chio adds tightly.
Pause.
“He brought a woman.”
Another pause.
“She was…”
“Armed? Sporting an Adam’s apple?”
“Young.”
I steady myself on the desk. “How young?”
“Nineteen.”
My voice plunges, lethal and edged with ice. “That’s not fucking possible. Not when I gave you explicit instructions.” I tap my chin slowly, drawing out the tension. “Remind me—what were those instructions again?”
“No one under twenty-one tonight.” His eyes drop to his shoes, suddenly a toddler caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar.
My pulse spikes—though God knows why, since I’ve consumed enough alcohol tonight to tranquilize a fucking horse.
“Where is she?”
We cross the room in swift strides, stopping at the balcony overlooking the packed floor below. The music pounds relentlessly, vibrating straight through my bones.
“Point her out,” I demand.
Chio leans forward, scanning the east half, eyes sharp. I take the west, searching for my uncle’s distinctive presence.
We’re locked in like hawks, zeroing in on prey moving through high grass. Bodies shift and sway beneath pulsing lights, grinding mindlessly to the beat—while I grind my teeth down to fucking dust.
It shouldn’t affect me like this. The feud with my uncle isn’t exactly a secret. The toxic wasteland that is our relationship has been smoldering for years.
But the rules are simple. Stay the fuck away from my club, or spend the next decade dodging pipe bombs.
The fact he’s bending the rules tonight on a bullshit technicality shouldn’t shock me.
What does shock me is how far he’s willing to sink. That he’d drag a woman—young, naive, probably a fucking virginal sacrifice—into a sadistic hazing ritual like tonight?
A new fucking low.
Even for him.
My jaw locks tight as I spot the bastard threading casually through the crowded floor. For now at least, he seems alone.
Thank fuck for small mercies.
I study him as he flags down a passing waitress, grabbing a drink—and boldly cupping her ass without sparing a single glance. But his attention’s laser-focused, locked onto something else entirely.
On something—or someone—across the room.
It takes me exactly two seconds to zero in on what’s got him hypnotized.
Long, dark hair cascading like spilled ink. A slip of a dress that jolts every nerve-ending in my body awake.
Because when she moves, fuck …
Suddenly, the gods turn generous—and every last pesky brain cell shuts the fuck down.
When the crowd parts just enough, light perfectly frames her body. She sways with the beat—hips rolling slow, inviting every filthy thought my mind can conjure.
Like the silk of her thighs wrapped around my face.
Her dress hugs every curve. Short. Tight. Ending in a flare just begging for my hand to slip beneath it.
That delicate shade of pink leaves her looking nearly naked—and yeah, my dick’s fully on board.
Her hands drift lazily above her head, hips moving slow, deliberate, each sinuous twist showcasing the lush curve of her ass silhouetted perfectly in the golden glow.
A tantalizing glimpse of black lace and garter flashes high on her thigh—the kind made for my teeth.
She spins again, dizzying, carefree—pure fucking delight—and my pulse stops dead.
Riley.