Chapter 2 Dante
Dante
Roman and I sit on a bench outside Saint Margaret's Hospital, staring up at the windows.
I know what floor she's on. Hell, I know what room she's in.
But it doesn't matter because I can't get to her.
My hands curl into fists, and my nails dig little half-moons into my palms. Roman taps away on his phone, likely messaging with Helena.
A pang of guilt jolts through my gut; I haven't seen her in days.
Not since we wrenched her out of police custody and promptly deposited her in the office of the most skilled therapist money can buy.
She watched Melody murder someone. She witnessed Melody being beaten, beaten so badly that she lost our baby.
Grief ripples through me like a shockwave.
Our baby. Our heir. Objectively, just a clump of cells.
But the loss still hurts, no matter how small.
I don't get to comfort my wife. I don't get to hold her hand while she cries; I don't get to pull her in close and smell her hair while she clutches my chest.
I don't get to show her how much I fucking love her. All because of Ella. Thanks to Ella and the Seraph, the first time I told my wife I love her was in a goddamn jail. I told her I loved her when she was out of her mind, dying of sepsis, bleeding profusely.
None of the jail staff even noticed. Or maybe they did, and they didn't care.
The justice system—I scoff, there's no justice in the system—has a deeply rooted hatred for women.
The cruelty is ingrained in the processes, embedded in the protocol.
And maybe I'm a piece of shit for not really, truly understanding it until now.
"Hey." Roman nudges me with his elbow. "I think that's her."
I look up from my clenched fists and spot a woman in bright pink scrubs leaning against the building, right next to the "No Smoking" sign. Finally, I crack a smile. Perfect.
Rising from the bench, I casually approach the woman. "Hello."
"Oh, shit!" She quickly stubs out her cigarette on the bricks. "You scared me. Uh, what can I do for you?"
"You can take a message to Melody." I lean in close and whisper, "Tell her that her husband is here. And he'll burn this godforsaken world to ash to get her back."
"You're Dante," she mumbles, flicking her gaze between my eyes. "Damn. I get it."
"What my associate means is," Roman says, sidling up to us and giving her a sheepish grin, "that he misses and loves her very much. All the normal stuff. That was not an actionable threat, ma'am."
"Ma'am." She mocks his gravelly voice. "Yeah, sure.
Wow, you two are actually perfect for each other.
Let's try this with you, then. Well, I'd like to tell you that she's awake and recovering at a fantastic speed.
I'd like to tell you that she misses you, too.
I'd love to tell you that, but I can't. Hope you'll understand. "
With that, she shoulders between us and quickly reenters the building, swiping her badge at the door. I turn to Roman with a glare. "I know you were not just flirting with a nurse while my wife convalesces handcuffed to a goddamn hospital bed."
"Flirting is a stretch, sir. I got the information without threatening a nurse." He schools his face into a neutral expression. "And, uh, I know I haven't said anything. But I am sorry for your loss."
My loss. Our loss. The loss of an heir, the concept that started… everything. Melody gave me my power, my position, my title. She gave me everything. And I gave her pain and trauma. I gave her a dead fetus. I got her mixed up in this fucked up world of mine. I don't know if she'll forgive me.
I don't know if I deserve her forgiveness.
I sit in Mr. Vetter's office, fading in and out of clarity as he explains the evidence the DA provided for Melody's case.
It seems like Ella's been busy, fabricating lies and planting Melody's prints everywhere she could.
They even fished Frank's barrel out of the Delaware River.
It's impressive. Or it would be, if it wasn't going to put my wife in prison for decades.
Another lawyer—I don't remember his name—says something about Illinois and extradition.
We can petition against it, but it's not looking good.
Exhaustion mixes with rage in my body, and I don't know what to do.
All the money and influence in the world, but I can't keep my wife out of prison?
I promised her safety. I promised her the world.
"Mr. Lyons?" Vetter reaches across the table. "Does the name 'Barry Lennox' mean anything to you?"
"What? No." Barry Lennox. Barry Lennox? Are they saying she killed him, too? "Who is that?"
"Barry Lennox went missing in the last, oh, six or seven months. His body was found in the Pine Barrens, out in New Jersey." Vetter points to a printed map. "There's CCTV footage of Melody acting, um, strangely towards a gas station attendant around the time they estimate his death."
Fuck. Barry. Barry, the conniving asshole I killed.
The rat bastard that I buried in the Pines.
It feels like so long ago, the day she and I met, and I never thought about Barry again.
She completely consumed my mind, my soul, my heart.
They can't pin Barry on her—that was me, I'll take the goddamn fall.
"She didn't do it," I announce. "I killed Barry."
"I didn't hear that." Vetter frowns. "And neither did anyone else in this room, capisce?
We'll work on another angle for that. Just because she was in New Jersey doesn't mean she killed every stiff that shows up in the state.
Though it's looking more and more like the DA wants to paint it like that. "
"Well, that's what we have you for, isn't it?
" I lean back in my chair and scowl at him.
His retainer fee is astronomical, and his hourly rate is even higher.
I don't give a shit. I'll spend every cent in my bank account—I'll clear out the Consortium, as well, as long as I get her back.
Out of the state's clutches. Out of the federal government's clutches.
What good is all this money if I can't fucking use it to get what I want?
"That is what you have me for." Vetter smirks. "My winning record speaks for itself, of course. And I don't intend to tarnish my reputation here. Otherwise, I wouldn't have taken her case."
"I don't give a shit about your record," I grunt, hefting my feet to rest on his desk. He glares at the soles of my shoes but doesn't tell me to move. I win. "I don't give a shit about your reputation. The only fucking thing I care about is Melody returning to my side. Is that clear?"
"Crystal." A soft ding sounds from his computer. "Fuck."
"What?"
Vetter grimaces, bracing himself before returning his attention to me. "The trial date is set."
"Already?" My heart races in my chest. "When?"
"One fucking month—Sandra!" Vetter shouts. "They set a date for a month! Draft a continuance—they can't do this!"
Dread settles in my bones as I listen to this expensive fucking lawyer and his expensive fucking staff flutter about.
One month. One fucking month. On one hand, I'm surprised it's not sooner.
Ella desperately wants the accolades for putting away my wife.
On the other hand, I thought we had judges for this sort of thing?
I'll need to make a call to The Belial—he has his hands everywhere.
"Mr. Lyons." Vetter scurries back into his opulent office. "You're free to leave—my staff and I will work this out. You have nothing to worry about."
I don't believe him, but I gather myself to leave, anyway.
Roman silently stalks behind me, watching my every move.
He stays quiet as we descend to the ground floor in a shockingly smooth elevator.
He stays quiet when he unlocks the car door, holding it open for me.
He stays quiet through the drive back to my home.
As soon as we enter the house, he turns to me with concern. "Sir… I don't know how well this is going to go."
"Neither do I, friend," I reply with a sigh. "But we have to fight. We have to win. I don't care what it takes."
"I know." He pours a finger of whiskey for both of us. "I sent a text to The Belial's assistant. They're working to get the case reassigned to a judge we… are acquainted with."
"Thank fuck for that."
Like every night before Melody, Roman and I fall into silence.
Back in those days, it was comfortable. It was serene.
It was just two men who worked hard decompressing after a long day.
Now? I'm anything but serene. The sirens and flashing lights haunt me every time I close my eyes.
I was so close—unbearably close—to rescuing her.
And yet, I failed. She was torn from me.
She's in the hospital under constant guard—hell, she might be back at the jail, I don't know—for a crime she mostly didn't commit.
Charlie, yes. Barry Lennox? Absolutely fucking not.
I don't need Vetter to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that she's innocent.
I just need him to introduce reasonable doubt.
Isn't that what court cases are about? Reasonable doubt?
"Sir," Roman whispers. He's staring at his phone with horror. "It… didn't work."
"What didn't work?"
"Her case. We don't get our judge." He swallows. "And the motion to delay was denied."
Fuck.
One month from today, I'll be sitting in the courtroom, staring daggers at every single one of the bastards working to put my wife away.
I don't care if I go to jail. I'll find every juror's home, family, job—it doesn't matter.
If they vote guilty, I'll fucking kill them myself.
I'll make it hurt. I'll make them bleed.
I'll write my love note to Melody with their entrails. She'll love it.
Interrupting my violent daydreams, Roman clears his throat. "Sir, we need to talk about Valencia's replacement."
"Whoever you select will be perfect, I'm sure," I mumble back, swirling my third whiskey of the day. The alcoholic burn doesn't help anymore. Nothing in this house feels right with her gone.
He sighs. "Alright. Well, then I'd like to extend an offer to Nora Ellison. Harvard Business School graduate—she's got an impressive resume, and I know she won't be squeamish about any of GoCon's extracurricular activities."
"Okay. Sounds good. Tell me where to sign." I reach for a pen, but he shakes his head.
"Here, just use your finger." Roman holds out the tablet he's working from, and I scribble something that looks vaguely like my signature.
It doesn't matter. None of this matters.
The money, the objects, the house—nothing.
Not if I can't share it with Melody. Looking around the living room, I cherish each of the items she left strewn about the place.
Her drawing supplies. The cross-stitch thread.
The short-lived attempt at crocheting, complete with wonky granny squares in red and black.
I don't want to move them. I want them to stay exactly as they are, so she'll feel like she never left. Like everything is waiting for her.
"Sir, if I may." Roman interrupts my misery again. "We have to keep the business running. We can't just wallow in self-pity. With that shark of a lawyer… you'll run out of money."
"The fuck I will," I growl. "Don't pretend you know exactly what my finances are. Besides, I don't give a shit. I'll bankrupt the whole Consortium if it means I get Melody out."
"I know. I know. But… you may find some comfort in returning to your routine," he says gently. Routine? Something in me snaps, and my rage burns through my veins.
"What, I should just forget about her? Go on with my life like nothing happened? Fuck off, Ro. You never liked her. You never wanted her here!" I jump to my feet. "All this time, all these months—you hated her. You wanted her gone!"
"I get that you're upset, sir," he says through gritted teeth.
"I'd like to remind you that I did everything—everything—you asked of me and more.
You wanted my opinions? I gave them. You wanted me here in the middle of the night to calm her down?
I came running. You wanted to trace her like a damn needle in a haystack?
I did it. I told you about every possible angle—I ripped apart that goddamn shack for her. "
Roman stands at his full height and shoves his chest against mine, breathing heavily. "Do not insinuate that I've ever done anything to wrong her. Or you. I think I'll take my leave now, sir."
My hands clench at my sides, digging my nails into my palms. He's right, but I can't say it.
I won't say it. I'm in a tailspin, and the only thing that can get me back on track is my wife.
And she's rotting in a goddamn county jail.
Roman slams the front door, the sound echoing through the house and reverberating in my bones.
I'm alone. And after all my failures, I deserve it.