16. Dante
Dante
Dario's text comes through at three in the morning.
Got him. Warehouse on South Racine.
I'm dressed and out the door in under two minutes.
Polina doesn't stir. She's curled on her side, and my cock starts to stiffen just looking at her. I brush my fingers through her hair once before I leave.
Dario's leaning against a support beam of the warehouse when I arrive, arms crossed, face expressionless. He jerks his chin toward the back.
Lebedev is zip-tied to a metal chair under a single bare bulb.
The asshole looks up when I enter, and I watch recognition bloom into terror.
"Corsini." His voice cracks. "Listen, we can make a deal—"
"No deals." I roll up my sleeves. "You sold your daughter to traffickers. You beat her for years. Broke her bones. Broke her."
"She was disobedient—"
My fist connects with his jaw before he finishes the sentence. His head snaps back, blood spraying from split lips.
I hit him again. And again.
For every bruise on her body. For every fracture. For every cutting remark. For every time she flinched at a raised hand.
"You were feeding Lombardi's network," I say, my voice deadly calm even as my knuckles split open. "Planning to start a war between the Bratva and my organization. Using your own daughter as bait."
He spits blood. "Lombardi promised—"
"Lombardi's going to follow you to hell soon enough." I grab a knife from the table Dario's set up.
I don't rush it.
I take my time extracting every detail, every confession, every whimpered apology that means nothing now.
By the time I'm finished, Lebedev is barely conscious, slumped in the chair, breathing in wet, ragged gasps.
"Any last words?" I ask.
“Fuck...” He manages to lift his head. “You”
I draw the knife across his throat in one clean motion.
He gurgles. Chokes. Goes still.
I step back, watching the blood pool on the concrete, and feel nothing. No satisfaction. No remorse. Just...done.
Dario materializes beside me with a clean towel and a bottle of water. I wash Lebedev's blood off my hands while my brother works efficiently to wrap the body in plastic sheeting.
"Where do you want him?" Dario asks.
"Bottom of the lake. Make sure he's weighted properly. I don't want him washing up."
"Done." He pauses, studying me. "You good?"
"Yeah."
But I'm not. Something's gnawing at my gut, and it takes me a moment to identify it.
Guilt.
Not for killing Lebedev—he deserved worse than what I gave him. But for what I'm about to tell Polina. He was her abuser but also her father, and I’m not sure how she’ll take it when she learns I killed him.
I drive home as dawn breaks, Lebedev's blood washed off but the weight of what I've done sitting on my shoulders.
Polina's awake when I get there. She's in the kitchen, bare feet on the tile, wearing a night shirt that hangs to mid-thigh. Her hair's a mess. She's never looked more beautiful.
"Hi." She smiles, but it fades when she sees my face. "What's wrong?"
I cross to her, cup her face in both hands. "Your father," I tell her quietly. "He's dead. You're safe now. No more threat.”
I watch her process this. Watch emotions flicker across her face too fast to name.
Then her face settles into an almost blank expression.
“Good,” she whispers. “That’s good.”
She pulls away gently, wrapping her arms around herself. “You should…get some rest. You must be exhausted."
She leaves the kitchen before I can respond.
I stand there alone, watching the space where she was, and wonder if I've made a terrible miscalculation.