52. Dante
Dante
F ucking Uncle Andre.
He stands there in a suit one size too small, seams screaming at the shoulders, cheap fabric worn thin and one thread shy of becoming car wash rags.
A lowball dangles loosely from his fingers, ice clinking softly, smirk dialed up to his usual level of practiced creep.
The glass he’s offering? Definitely slobbered over.
Or pissed in.
Probably both.
My money’s on both.
My gaze flicks from the glass to his smug fucking face. I hold, letting the silence grow brutal, painful, deafening.
When he doesn’t take the hint, I exhale slowly, voice a flat blade.
“I’m good.”
“Are you, son?”
His hand clamps onto my shoulder, and my reflexes snap—like they always fucking do around him.
In the blink of an eye, Pom’s switchblade is in my grip, the razor-sharp edge pinning his thumb hard with it.
“I’m going to release your hand,” I say, deadly calm. “And you’re going to remove it from my shoulder before I slice off every fat fucking finger you have and shove them down your throat—starting with this little piggy.”
The blade kisses skin, just enough to make a point.
He hisses sharply as blood beads along the steel edge, his entire body coiling with tension, but the bastard doesn’t flinch.
When I finally ease up, he smartly steps back, making the first good decision he’s managed all night.
Then he chuckles—low, cracked, fucking deranged—the way only assholes and sadists do.
I retract the blade with a slick click, sliding it back into my pocket.
“I brought a girl here tonight,” he drawls, swirling a finger slowly around the rim of his drink. “Goes by Riley Luciano. Though you might know her better as Riley Mullvain. Perhaps you noticed her? Pink dress. Big mouth, fuckable ass. Just begging to be broken.”
My expression flattens. “Sounds like your type. Desperate and imaginary.”
“Strange, though—” He takes a slow sip, lips curling into a tight grin. “She walked in wearing a necklace. Now?” He shrugs. “Seems it’s vanished.”
My jaw ticks, tension winding razor tight.
He keeps going. “Those necklaces are reinforced with titanium and an impenetrable lock for a reason. They don’t come off.”
That’s because too many women have torn their own throats bloody, desperate to rip them off the second they realize what the fuck they mean:
They’re owned.
Toys to break, ruin, trade, and discard…destroy.
And no one owns Riley.
No one but me.
“Whoops,” I say flatly, pulling a cigar from my pocket and lighting it with steady, unaffected fingers.
Andre’s low growl of irritation scrapes along my nerves, music to my fucking ears. But he isn’t murderous.
Yet.
I cock my head slowly, a cold smirk edging onto my lips. “If you’re gonna have a heart attack over this, let me FaceTime my brothers. They won’t want to miss it.”
He taps his chest once, jaw locked tight. “I sponsored her. A half-million-dollar necklace is missing, Dante. One the Keenans will gladly go to war over.”
I hold his stare, unblinking, and blow a slow, deliberate cloud of smoke directly into his face. “Sounds like a you problem.”
“It’ll be Riley’s problem real fucking fast. You think I missed that pathetic hard-on at the wedding? The one visible from fucking space?”
I snort, voice acid-dry. “My uncle scoping out my dick size? Flattering if it weren’t creepy as fuck.”
He lunges closer, shoulders coiled, ready to strike. “If that necklace isn’t back in my hand, Dante, I’ll be collecting payment from her—in blood.”
By now, Chio should have her halfway home.
Or maybe to a hotel.
A safe house.
Why not my house?
Shut up.
I stare him down with flat, bored eyes. “Good luck with that.”
“Oh, it’s only a matter of time, Dante.” He inches forward, breath reeking of whiskey and decay, voice a low, chilling rasp. “I will find her. I’ll fuck her raw. Over and over again. Use her. Break her. Cum in every hole until she begs for death. Then pass her around to all my friends.”
Something in me fractures.
He wanted the monster? He just woke it the fuck up.
My hand fists in his collar, slamming him spine-first into the wall. My elbow drives into his ribs, a violent crack beneath it.
The fucker smirks. “Bulletproof vest.”
“Too bad it doesn’t cover your face.”
The burning cherry of my cigar arcs toward his eye. Finding Riley will be that much harder if he can’t fucking see her.
But then I feel it.
Cold steel pressing hard against my skull.
The menace of a harsh voice slices through. “Let him go, Dante.”
I glance sideways, expecting one of my uncle’s oversized goons—or hell, maybe even one of mine, deciding to twist the knife. Instantly, I curse myself for walking into a secluded alley without a real weapon and zero backup.
Fucking genius.
The thought flickers that I’ve got just enough time to turn one of this bastard’s eyeballs into a molten marshmallow before they paint my brains across the bricks.
Because, fuck it. Why not?
But when I turn, reality punches me straight in the teeth. A flood of petty details confirm that this asshole isn’t even a blip on my radar.
Gun? Old.
Suit? Clearance rack.
And whoever forced him into those shoes and that tie is either a scorned lover, his mortal enemy, or blind as fuck.
My lip curls into a slow, vicious smirk.
Special Agent Caleb Knox. Jesus, talk about scraping the bottom of the fucking barrel.
I shove my uncle away, lip curled with disgust.
“Fucking the Feds now? That’s low—even for you. But I can’t say I’m surprised.”
Two more agents bleed from the darkness, guns leveled at my head. Knox takes a careful step back, weapon steady, arrogance thickening his voice.
“We have a few questions for you, Mr. D’Angelo.”
“Call my lawyer,” I say, enjoying a long drag of my cigar.
Knox pauses, then aims his words carefully, precise as a bullet. “Mr. Andre D’Angelo.”
Uncle Andre doesn’t even blink. He straightens his tie, unbothered, ice fucking cold. “Call my lawyer.”
“We did. He’s already in custody.” Knox pulls out his cuffs, a wolfish gleam in his eyes. “You’re up.”
The agents drag him away, but not before Uncle Andre lands one final, parting shot. “Tick fucking tock, son.”
The moment his car disappears, Knox holsters his gun, shifting his stance like he’s bracing for impact.
“I won’t be able to keep him long. We need to act fast.”
I stare at him as if he just offered to suck my dick.
“ We? ”
Knox doesn’t waver, matching my stare. “That’s how this works, Dante. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. Andre’s out of your hair. Now tell me what the fuck’s going down.”
I fold my arms, leaning back just enough for Dante’s Inferno’s neon-red glow to bathe me in blood—purely to fuck with him. “And what makes you think I know shit about this club?”
He deadpans. “I’m going in.”
“Not without a warrant.”
A pause. Let it linger. Then my mouth twitches into a cold smirk. “What’s wrong, Knox? No judge in the city willing to sign off?”
We both know the answer.
Because three of the highest-ranking judges in Chicago are currently balls-deep in lap dances behind this very door.
Knox’s jaw clenches, frustration twitching under his skin. “I can help you,” he grits.
“More like you can help yourself.”
“I can protect you. Your family. Trinity?—”
“Is that what you told my father the week before he disappeared?”
Knox exhales slowly, nostrils flaring—controlled on the surface, but his fingers twitch restlessly at his side, itching to reach for a cigarette he’s desperately pretending not to crave.
Or his gun.
I hold his stare, unblinking.
When he finally speaks, his voice shifts into that bullshit, silk-smooth good-cop tone meant to soothe—to fucking disarm.
“If you want your uncle taken down, we need to work together.”
I shove off the wall, yank open the door, and return to my den.
“I work alone.”