Chapter 16
DANTE
Being a father is infinitely harder than being a killer.
I’ve broken men with my bare hands. I’ve stared down the barrel of a gun without flinching. I have survived injuries that would kill the average man.
But a five-year-old’s innocent questions? Those cut deeper than any blade ever could.
I’m in my office going through security reports when Luca appears in the doorway, dragging his blanket behind him.
“D, can you read me a story? Mama’s busy with Rosa.”
I glance at the clock. It’s barely past lunch, not story time. But he’s looking at me with those grey eyes that are too much like my own, and I can’t bring myself to say no.
“Yeah. Come here.”
He climbs onto my lap with one of his favorite dragon books and I read it to him even though I have three calls scheduled and a shipment to coordinate. Because this is what fathers do, apparently. They drop everything for story time.
My natural instincts are screaming at me to maintain control, to stick to the schedule, to be efficient and ruthless with my time. But those instincts don’t translate well to parenting a five-year-old who just wants his father’s attention.
“D, do dragons have families?”
“I think so. Most creatures do.”
“Even the scary ones?”
“Even the scary ones.”
He’s quiet for a moment, tracing the pictures in the book. “Are you scary?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re scary to bad people. But not to me.”
Something in my chest tightens painfully. “Good. I never want to be scary to you, buddy.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
He seems satisfied with this and snuggles deeper into my lap while I finish the story. And I realize this is the part I don’t know how to navigate. The gentleness. The patience. The being present when every fiber of my being is trained for violence and control.
I’m trying. God, I’m trying. But it feels like learning a new language when you’re already fluent in death.
Later that afternoon, I’m reviewing shipment manifests when Viktor calls.
“Boss, we have a situation with the Brooklyn territory. The Russians are pushing boundaries again.”
“How aggressive?”
“They hit one of our collection points. Sent a message that they want to renegotiate our arrangement.”
My jaw clenches. “Set up a meeting. I’ll handle it personally.”
“When?”
“Tonight. The usual place.”
I hang up and find Scarlett in the kitchen, writing what looks like a shopping list.
She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that somehow makes her look both casual and impossibly beautiful. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s barefoot, completely at ease in my space.
Our space, I correct myself.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up. “Making a list. We’re out of half the things Luca likes and I need to pick up groceries.”
“Rosa handles the groceries.”
“I know. But I want to do it myself. It’s a normal thing, Dante. People go grocery shopping.”
“Not you. Not right now.”
Now she looks up, and I can see the defiance already building in her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not safe for you to leave the estate. You know this.”
“For a quick trip to the grocery store? Really?”
“Yes, really. There are people actively hunting you. Professional killers who would love nothing more than to catch you alone in a parking lot.”
She sets down her pen with deliberate slowness. “So what, I’m just supposed to stay locked up here forever? Never leave? Never do anything normal?”
“Until the threat is neutralized, yes.”
“That’s not reasonable.”
“It’s reality.”
Her eyes flash with anger. “You don’t get to forbid me from doing basic things, Dante. I’m not one of your soldiers.”
“When it comes to your safety, I get to forbid whatever I want. And you’re not leaving these grounds.”
“Watch me.”
She turns on her heel and walks away, dismissing me like I’m some servant she’s done with. The audacity of it makes my blood boil.
I follow her down the hallway, my footsteps matching hers. She speeds up but I’m faster, my longer stride eating up the distance between us.
I catch her wrist and spin her around, slamming her back against the wall with controlled force. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make my point absolutely clear.
We’re inches apart now, both breathing hard.
“When I say something isn’t safe,” I growl, “you listen.”
“I’m not one of your soldiers to command.”
“No. You’re more important than any soldier. Which is exactly why you follow my rules about safety.”
“Your rules are logical, yes, but it’s frustrating and suffocating.”
“My rules keep you alive.”
Her hands come up to my chest, fingers curling into my shirt. “I can’t live like this. Like a prisoner.”
“You’re not a prisoner. You’re protected.”
“It feels the same way.”
My hand moves to brace beside her head, my body caging hers in completely. I can see her pulse racing in her throat, can feel the heat coming off her skin, and can smell her lavender fragrance.
“You think I like this?” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “You think I enjoy having to lock you down like you’re in witness protection?”
“Then let me have some freedom.”
“I can’t. Not when it could get you killed.”
“You can’t protect me from everything.”
“Watch me try.”
We’re both breathing hard now, the anger mixing with something else. The air thickens with tension that’s part fury, part want.
I can see her pupils dilate. Can feel the way her breathing changes. Can sense the exact moment the argument shifts into dangerous territory.
For a long moment we just stare at each other, and I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies are almost touching. The few inches between us feel electric. Then I can’t take it anymore.
I kiss her hard, claiming her mouth like I have every right to it. Like she’s mine and we both know it even when we’re fighting.
She makes a sound of protest that dissolves into a moan as she kisses me back with equal fury. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer even as her mind is probably screaming at her to push me away.
This is what we do. Fight and fuck and fight some more because neither of us knows how to just exist together without the battle.
My hand slides to her hip, gripping hard enough to leave marks, and she arches into me with a gasp I swallow. Then she shoves me away with enough force that I actually stumble back.
“Don’t,” she says, and her voice is shaking. “Don’t use sex to win arguments.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes you are. Every time we fight, you do this. You kiss me into submission and think it solves everything.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing, Dante? Because from here it looks like manipulation.”
The accusation stings more than it should. “I’m trying to keep you safe. That’s all I’ve ever been trying to do.”
“By controlling every aspect of my life?”
“By protecting you from people who want you dead!”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the internal battle playing out on her face. The war between wanting her independence and knowing I’m right about the danger.
“I hate this,” she finally says. “I hate that you’re right. I hate that I can’t argue with you. I hate feeling trapped.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you seem perfectly comfortable controlling everything.”
“I’m not comfortable with any of this. But I’m doing what needs to be done.”
She shakes her head and walks away, slower this time but still leaving. Still refusing to finish the conversation.
I let her go because what else can I do? Force her to stay and listen? That’ll just prove her point about me being controlling.
I stand there in the empty hallway, hard and frustrated and utterly obsessed with a woman who refuses to bend even an inch.
And the worst part? I don’t actually want her to bend. I don’t want her to be submissive or compliant or any of the things I demand from everyone else.
I want her exactly like this. Fighting me. Challenging me. Pushing back with that fire in her eyes that makes me want to both shake her and kiss her until neither of us can think straight.
Our relationship is a constant battle of wills where neither will fully surrender. And that dynamic is intoxicating in ways I don’t fully understand.
I’ve never had to work for anything in my personal life. People either fear me or obey me or both. But Scarlett does neither. She looks at me and sees a man, not a monster. She fights with me because she’s not afraid, and that fearlessness is more attractive than anything else she could do.
I head to my office and try to focus on work, but all I can think about is the feel of her against me. The taste of her anger-laced kiss. The way she looked at me with fury and want warring in her eyes. This woman is going to drive me insane.
That evening after I’ve put Luca to bed and Scarlett has locked herself in the library to avoid me, I make a decision.
I need perspective. Need someone who can see past the violence and control to whatever might still be salvageable in me.
I drive to the small church three miles from the estate. It’s old and quiet, built in the 1800s with stained glass windows that glow softly in the darkness.
Father Benedetto has been the priest here for thirty years. He’s known me since I was a teenager, drowning in my father’s legacy and my own capacity for violence.
He’s one of the few people who’s never been afraid of me. Who sees something worth saving even when I don’t.
I find him in the rectory, reading by lamplight.
“Dante.” He looks up and smiles. “It’s been too long.”
“I know. I’ve been…”
“Busy being a father?”
I drop into the chair across from him. “How did you know?”
“Word travels. Even to old priests in quiet churches.” He sets down his book. “Tell me about him.”
“His name is Luca. He’s five. And I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Most fathers don’t. They just pretend better.”
“I can’t afford to pretend. Not with him. Not when one wrong move could destroy whatever chance I have at being the father he deserves.”
Father Benedetto studies me for a long moment. “You’re afraid.”
“Terrified. I know how to kill. I know how to control. I know how to run an empire built on fear. But being gentle? Being patient? Being present for a child who needs stability?” I shake my head. “That’s harder than anything I’ve ever done.”
“Because it requires vulnerability. And you’ve spent your entire life building walls against that.”
“Those walls kept me alive.”
“They also kept you isolated. Alone. Until now.”
He’s right. I’ve been alone by choice and circumstance for so long that having people who matter feels foreign. Dangerous.
“There’s more,” I say. “The ledger. Antonio Marchetti’s insurance policy. People are still hunting for it, and they think Scarlett knows where it is.”
“Does she?”
“Not consciously. But she’s starting to remember things from that night. Fragments. Pieces. And every memory traumatizes her again.”
“So you’re caught between protecting her and hurting her.”
“Exactly. I need those memories to keep them both safe. But extracting them means making her relive the worst night of her life.”
Father Benedetto is quiet for a moment. “Do you love her?”
The question catches me off guard. “I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I can’t stop thinking about her. Can’t stand the thought of losing her. I want to possess every part of her until there’s nothing left that isn’t mine. Is that love?”
“It could be. Or it could be obsession. The difference is whether you want what’s best for her or what’s best for you.”
I think about that. About how I’ve been handling things with Scarlett. About the control and the rules and the constant battles.
“I want both,” I finally admit. “I want her safe. I want her with me. And I want her to stop fighting me every step of the way.”
“But if she stopped fighting, would you still want her?”
The question hits harder than it should. Because he’s right. The fire in Scarlett, the refusal to submit, the constant challenge—that’s what draws me to her. If she became compliant and obedient, she’d be just like everyone else who fears me. And I don’t want that.
“She makes me better,” I say quietly. “Forces me to be more than just the violence and control. Makes me try, even when I don’t know how.”
“Then that’s your answer. That’s love, Dante. Not the obsession or possession, but the wanting to be better because of someone.”
“I don’t know how to be better. I only know how to be what I am.”
“You’re a father now. That requires you to learn. To grow. To choose your child’s future over your past.”
“What if I choose wrong?”
“Then you try again. Being a father isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up. Being present. Making choices that put your child first, even when they’re hard.”
We talk for another hour about faith and redemption and whether someone like me can ever be more than the sum of my violence. Father Benedetto doesn’t have easy answers, but he offers perspective I desperately need.
When I finally leave, it’s late and the streets are empty.
I drive back to the estate thinking about everything he said. About choosing Luca’s future over my past. About being present instead of perfect. About love being the desire to be better because of someone.
And maybe, just maybe, I can be both the monster who protects them and the man who loves them.
Even if I’m still figuring out what that means.