12. Dante
Dante
" N o, please! I'm sorry!" The sewer rat before me begs for his pathetic life. I drag my chair over to sit directly in front of him, cocking my head to the side.
"Sorry for what, Anthony?" I smile and flip the machete around in the air, enjoying the whooshing sound. "Sorry for… stealing from me? Sorry for… selling the Market building out from under me?"
"Yes, yes, all of it!" Anthony shakes, blubbering, spittle leaking from the corners of his cracked lips. His bloodshot eyes flick around the darkened room.
"Or are you sorry…" I slash a wide path across his bruised chest, smiling at the waterfall of blood that erupts. "For planting a goddamn bug in my office?"
Anthony is beyond comprehension. Wordless screams pierce the air as he sobs pathetically. I grimace at him and slap a piece of duct tape over his sniveling maw. Sweat beads on his grimy forehead, and the tape droops, allowing his infuriating crying to come through.
I stand and sigh, looking over my table of implements. The machete is my favorite, of course. Long and lethal, so I don't have to be up close and personal. Roman left me a few scalpels, as well as the almighty gun. The roll of duct tape is almost out—I'll need to replace that soon.
Though what I'm looking for isn't necessarily a weapon. I just want something to shut the motherfucker up. Sound-dampening panels line the walls, so I'm confident no one can hear him outside of my basement.
But I can fucking hear him, and I don't give a solitary shit about what he has to say.
As I turn away from the bitch, he rattles the steel chair and his iron chains. His screams are frantic, panicked, and giving me a goddamn headache. A folded stack of rags offers the perfect solution; I cram two of them into his bloodied mouth and chuckle at the muffled sobs.
"Hush, Anthony. You did this to yourself." I trail my fingers along his sweaty shoulder, tracing a smiley face into the bloody grime. "You stole from me. You betrayed me. You passed my secrets to the Seraph. And for that, your punishment…"
I slit his throat and revel in the gurgling sputters. Yanking his head back by his greasy hair, I watch the light leave his eyes. The gush of blood slows to a trickle, his heart dutifully pumping, until finally… it stops.
"… is death."
Stepping out of the shower, I towel myself off in the bedroom. Melody's sleeping form is deceptive. She looks so peaceful, so serene. She is nothing like that. Melody is a terror, fury made human, and I underestimated her.
I will not make that mistake again.
But tonight is the Goetic Gala, where all of the key players come together and play nice for a few hours, while celebrating our wins.
And Melody is required to be there, insanity or no.
Roman mixed up a particularly pliant cocktail a few hours ago after subduing her, and we'll administer it just before the Gala.
For now, though, she sleeps in silence. With a heavy sigh, I return to the living room where Roman awaits. We sit in silence, occasionally broken by the clink of ice against my glass. He huffs a breath from his nose and flicks his gaze towards me.
I shake my head and stare at the wood grain of the floor. The swirls and lines look like eyes staring back at me. Judging me. Judging my choices. My phone vibrates on the side table, the Bael's name and symbol flashing across the screen. With a groan, I answer the call.
"Congratulations, Dante. Will we be meeting the blushing bride tonight?" The condescension practically drips through the phone.
"Of course. We wouldn't miss it for the world. Though you may have to tear her away from me long enough for the awards, Bael. She's utterly insatiable." I crack a smile, and Roman stifles a snort.
"Charming. I look forward to your Ascension, Dante. We all do. Though, as you may well know, it is… probationary , until an heir is produced."
"What do you take me for, Bael? An idiot? Of course, I know. But as I said… insatiable. I expect you'll be attending the baby shower by this time next year."
She hums into the phone, and the pop of a cork echoes in the background. No doubt it's her cheap rosé.
"Well." She slurps some of her god-awful wine. "I personally cannot wait to meet the woman who's tamed you ."
"It'll be fantastic, I guarantee it."
Melody woke up a few hours before the gala.
She's surprisingly compliant, smiling and going through the motions of putting on her makeup.
Styling her hair. Though I can still see the roiling tension behind her eyes.
It's still there, and it's still terrifying.
I smirk. She truly is the perfect mother for my future children.
They'll be ruthless. Ferocious. Murderous.
Just like us.
My heart leaps in my chest as she steps out of the bathroom in a sleek black dress with a high slit, revealing the tanned expanse of her thigh.
I can't help but sweep my gaze down the hint of cleavage revealed by the sweetheart neckline.
A shiver rolls down my spine as I take in the full sight of her—my wife—a vision in black.
Elegant purple accents match my colors perfectly.
The bottoms of her heels aren't red, they're purple.
My purple.
"Good? Bad? Why are you looking at me like that?" She furrows her brow and sneers at me. My heart leaps again, and I have to suppress a giddy grin.
"Nearly perfect. Just one more thing," I murmur as I reach into the vase on my bedside table.
I take one deep crimson rose—its petals almost black, just like the ones I left her for weeks—and snap the stem off.
She watches with suspicious eyes as I tuck the rose behind her ear, securing it with an extra bobby pin she used for her wild and wavy updo.
"Lemme see," she demands and storms back into the bathroom. She stills, evaluating herself in the mirror. I watch the gentle pulse feather in her throat as a malicious grin spreads across her face. "Let's fucking do this, asshole."
My stunned silence follows us to the McLaren, and neither of us speaks a word as we drive to the venue. She fidgets with the hem of her dress and bounces her knee as we get closer and closer. I subtly touch my pocket, checking to make sure the syringe is still there—it is.
The insurance policy, courtesy of Roman. Just in case she gets… out of hand.
Pulling up to the Pearford Estates, I take another glance at Melody, who stares straight ahead with a blank expression. She watches me as I toss my keys to the valet and offer her my arm. She takes it, and I can feel the nervous tension in her hands.
"You'll be fine, Melody. Polite civility, and we'll go home," I whisper as we approach the floral arches surrounding the entrance. Classical string music floats through the air, just over the low din of conversation.
The amount of wealth on display is disgusting, even to me.
Flowers in every color of the rainbow are artfully arranged in priceless vases on every table.
Edison bulb string lights illuminate the outdoor portion, accompanied by small fire pits for warmth.
Rustic stone and stained beams provide an old-world sort of ambiance inside the ballroom.
Buffet tables with finger foods line one wall.
Silent staff people roam the crowds, passing out drinks and hors d'oeuvres in practiced deference.
Melody clamps her hand down on my arm, stabbing her nails into the luxurious wool of my suit. "I can't do this."
"You can, and you will. If you're a good girl, I'll reward you when we get home," I mumble in her ear with a smile. A look of appreciation flashes across her face, but it's gone as quickly as it came when she spots the group of well-dressed women staring at us.
"Who are they?" she says out of the corner of her mouth.
"The Bael, The Sitri, and The Beleth," I whisper. "Let's get this over with, first thing, and then we can make the rounds and go home."
She nods almost imperceptibly as we casually stroll towards the three women. The Bael's piercing gaze rakes up and down Melody. The Sitri and Beleth smirk and wave.
"Ladies," I say with false gravitas. "I'd love for you to meet my wife. Melody Lyons."
"Congratulations on your recent nuptials, Mr. and Mrs. Lyons." The Beleth extends her hand to Melody, who stares at it until I nudge her gently. "Fantastic to meet you."
"You, too," Melody mumbles back.
"Well, I hope you three have a lovely night—" I start.
"Pulling her away already, Dante?" The Bael flashes her teeth in a menacing grin. "Why? We don't bite." The Bael tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder and sips the pale blush of her wine.
The Beleth assesses Melody with her icy blue eyes.
I can feel her stiffen beside me, and I throw my arm around her shoulder—she holds back a flinch, but The Sitri catches it.
I curse internally. Samantha can overanalyze relationships from a glance, and I don't especially feel like listening to her psychobabble.
"It's all a bit overwhelming, you know?" Melody pipes up. "There are so many people, and I get a bit nervous in crowds."
She does? I smile until I notice the three Goetic women looking a bit concerned.
Peering over to Melody, I see why. She has murder written across her face—a tight smile that doesn't meet her eyes.
That roiling rage beneath her skin shines through, and I feel the stone around my heart chip away, just a little bit more.
"Completely understandable, love." I lay a gentle kiss on her temple. "Shall we?"
She nods, and I whisk her away, feeling the gaze of all around us evaluating me and my new wife.
Melody makes a beeline to the catering tables, honing in on miso-glazed salmon.
Excellent choice . A short man in a white shirt and black vest loads the plate at her direction, smiling blithely until he catches my eye.
I can feel myself radiating death at the sight of a man in Melody's vicinity.
He falters and focuses his gaze down to the table, deferent, demure.
Melody is right. This is abject torture. And I am not in the business of torturing myself.
"We'll have a bite and head back home," I murmur under my breath. Melody nods and follows me to an empty table. A few missteps aside, this evening is going very well. She is behaving in such a divine manner. I smirk and remember my promise. Oh, she will be wonderfully rewarded.
Scanning the room, I point out the various key players that she may need to remember. I'm not one for this fucking hierarchy—they foisted this predicament on both of us, really—but I refuse to be humiliated if she were to disrespect The Paimon.
Well-dressed lackeys and henchpeople flit about the periphery, gossiping and laughing.
Melody is nearly finished with the salmon and has moved on to the fondant potatoes, silently chewing and gripping her cutlery with concerning force.
Francisco, the Marbas's right-hand man, has a shit-eating grin on his face as he approaches.
"Would you look at this," he says. "Dante Lyons, happily wed. I never thought I'd see the day."
I grasp Melody's free hand and smile tightly at the man. "Nor did I, Francisco. Have you met my lovely wife? Melody, this is Francisco. He works for The Marbas."
She grunts and turns back to her plate. "Nice t'meet you." Stuffing the last hunk of salmon in her mouth, she chews and looks Francisco up and down.
"Charming. I must say, Dante, this isn't the sort of woman I envisioned for you. Certainly not someone of…" He chuckles. "… this size ."
Before I know it, both Melody and I are on our feet, and she backhands Francisco.
The room falls silent. Disgust and rage flood my veins as Melody heaves out feverish breaths. Francisco smiles and raises his hand to his pinkened cheek. I straighten my spine and look out at the room, meeting the gazes of all our spectators.
"I call a tribunal." I project my voice and lock my gaze on The Belial. His golden-brown eyes shine in the Edison bulb light, while his Rottweiler stands dutifully at his side. "My wife has been disrespected, and I will not stand idly by."
The eyes in the room shift from myself to The Belial. He reaches down and pats the dog's head. "Very well. Tomorrow morning, nine sharp."
Francisco scurries away as I sit back down and pull Melody into my lap.
"What's a tribunal?" she whispers into my ear.
"Justice."