21. Dante
Chapter 21
Dante
I ’ve spent most of my day sifting through the things collected from Edoardo’s office, but I’ve yet to find anything interesting.
The laptop and two phones have been sent to Sydney for Spencer Prescott, my tech guy, to examine. This is my last chance to get the rest of the puzzle pieces I need.
The only way I’m going to get to the root of this mess is to discover the depth of his betrayal and who else was involved. I can’t eliminate the threats until I know who they are. Given how far Edoardo’s hatred went, my gut tells me there’s more to uncover.
When my driver pulls up outside Edoardo’s mistress’s house, I remain in the vehicle while Romeo goes to retrieve her.
A few days have passed since I wiped that motherfucker off the face of this earth, so it’s only a matter of time before someone reports him missing.
As a precaution, I need to dot every ‘i’ and cross every ’t’. It’s imperative that I tie up all the loose ends so none of this can come back and bite me on the arse further down the line.
When Romeo returns to the waiting limousine with the woman in tow, I’m again struck by her youth. She doesn’t look much older than my wife. She also seems quietly terrified, which is what I was hoping for. My presence alone will either get her talking or scare her into keeping her mouth closed if she suspects anything untoward has happened.
I wind down my window as they approach the car. “M-Mr Mancini,” she stutters. “You wanted to speak with me?”
A part of me feels bad for her, even more so when I notice the yellowing bruise on her cheek. How could my father be so blind to his best friend’s evilness? My brother saw straight through him. I, on the other hand, trusted Papa’s lead implicitly.
“Yes. I’m looking for Edoardo. Have you seen him?”
“N-no.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Three days ago,” she answers, which I know is the truth.
“Did he mention he was going somewhere? I’ve been unable to contact him for days.”
Her eyes shift to Romeo, who’s still looming beside her, before moving back to me. I give her an easy smile, reassuring her she’s in no danger. “Umm … no. But he’s been acting weird lately.”
“Weird,” I say, arching an eyebrow.
“I … I don’t want to get him into any trouble.”
“You won’t,” I assure her. He’s already suffered the worst of it. “He’s family,” I add, and those words taste so fucking bitter on my tongue. “I’m just concerned for his welfare. It’s unlike him to up and disappear without saying something.”
“I don’t know where he is, but I have a feeling he’s in some kind of trouble.”
“Why would you think that?”
“He’s been acting paranoid. He’d make me turn all the lights off as soon as he arrived here, and then he would stand by the window and stare into the darkness. Maybe someone has been following him? ”
“Maybe,” I say, casually lifting one shoulder. “He never mentioned anything to me. Did he give you any indication other than that?”
“No,” she replies, shaking her head. “He always told me it wasn’t my place if I asked questions.”
I nod. “How was he acting the last time you saw him?”
“He got a notification on his phone, went apeshit and then took off.”
“Is that how you got that bruise?” I ask, gesturing to her cheek.
She bows her face and doesn’t reply, which tells me I’m right. The Cosa Nostra has certain rules and unspoken codes of behaviour that are meant to maintain the image of honour, respect, and loyalty. Violence towards women is definitely frowned upon. I hope that fucker is already burning in hell where he belongs.
“Do you own this place?” I ask, flicking my chin towards the house.
“No. I rent.”
“Do you have a job?”
She diverts her eyes, staring off to the side, and when her cheeks flush pink, I get my answer. Given the monumental age gap, logic tells me she was with Edoardo for the notoriety and lifestyle that comes with being associated with the Mafia, because she could certainly do better than him.
“Does Edoardo pay your rent?”
She winces before moving her gaze back to me. “Yes. It’s due at the end of the month, so I’m not sure what I will do if he doesn’t return.”
“Did he leave anything with you?”
“No. I only have a few suits here. Nothing of real value.”
“I will pay the rent for the next six months, giving you time to find your feet and look for a job.”
Her eyes widen in shock. “Why would you do that?”
I inhale through my nose and momentarily grind my back teeth as I force the next words from my mouth. “Edoardo is Famiglia, and we look after our own.”
“I appreciate that, Mr Mancini. Thank you.”
I’m not obligated to this woman, but I’m not a heartless monster either. She’s the innocent one in all this. “Do you have your phone on you?” I ask.
“Yes,” she answers, pulling it from the back pocket of her jeans. “But you’ll find nothing on there. I’m telling the truth.”
“I believe you.” I’m pretty good at reading people, and I don’t think she’s hiding anything. “Give it to Romeo. He can put his number in there in case you need to contact us.”
“My number,” Romeo murmurs as his eyebrows jump. “Why mine?”
“Because I said so,” I grumble.
He’s single, and my little green-eyed wife demanded I delete all the female contacts I had on my phone—which I did to appease her—so I’m not about to add another and risk feeling her wrath.
Despite having Edoardo out of the picture for good, I still feel like I have the weight of the world resting on my shoulders. I acted on impulse when I pulled the trigger before getting to the bottom of this mess, and although I have zero regrets for ending that piece of shit, I wished I’d held off a little longer.
When he confessed to driving my mother off the road, something inside me shattered. I’m not sure I could’ve stopped myself—even if I wanted to—but now I’m left with the task of piecing the rest of this clusterfuck together.
My sense of trust has now vanished, and I find myself being suspicious of everyone around me. I’m grappling with anger, grief, and a painful re-examination of my relationship with both my father and the person he thought he knew so well. If only he could’ve seen the truth all those years ago, I know for certain he’d still be alive.
Pushing those thoughts out of my head, I blow out a long breath when my driver pulls up at the front of my house. My one consolation about being here is Arabella. That woman has quickly become my addiction. My escape from the shitshow that is now my life.
As I exit the car and walk up the stairs to the front door, I can hear loud music coming from inside. The sound sends a cold shiver down my spine and makes my heart pang.
It’s one of my father’s old records, Dean Martin, to be precise. I pause briefly before reaching for the door handle. I’d give anything right now to step inside and find him sitting on his recliner, sipping his arse-tasting amaro.
As I enter the foyer, I inhale deeply through my nose and fill my lungs with air. In a few long strides, I reach the entrance to the main room, where I find my wife singing along with the music and swaying her hips as she decorates a large Christmas tree. The sight instantly lifts my spirits, replacing the frown I had when I walked in with a smile.
Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Dance like nobody’s watching’? It’s the first thing that comes to mind as I stand here and observe her. She’s really letting loose, and even though her moves aren’t the most coordinated, I can’t help but think she’s absolutely adorable.
Briefly dragging my eyes away from her, I scan the room. It looks like Father Christmas has thrown up in here, but I’m not opposed to that. We haven’t had a tree in this house since we lost Mamma, so I like that Arabella is bringing back that tradition. Christmas was such a magical time for me as a kid.
I’d much rather think of those special times growing up than the fact that on Christmas Day last year, I lay in the backyard on the brink of death, riddled with bullets.
This space is no longer reminiscent of the room it once was. When I asked Arabella to redecorate the house, she knew it was important to keep some of the old while introducing the new. She made sure to incorporate little things that reminded me of my parents, like the leather armchair my father used to sit in, his record player, and the old grandfather clock that has been in Mamma’s family for generations.
At the same time, my wife has brought in fresh, modern touches, which I love. It is a place where my children will grow up and make their own precious memories like Alexander and I once did.
“ Volare ”, which means ‘to fly’ when translated into English, is currently blasting through the speakers. It’s a song I remember my mother and father dancing to in this very room many, many years ago. It has memories long forgotten flooding through my mind.
Arabella lets out a tiny squeak when I sneak up behind her, slide my arms around her waist, and draw her back into my front. I want to bask in her happiness. I need an outlet to help shut my mind down for a while.
“Dance with me,” I say as I bury my face in the crook of her neck and begin to sway our bodies.
She spins in my arms. “You want to dance … with me?”
“Yes, Bellezza … with you.”
I keep one arm around her waist as I reach for her right hand with the other, pulling her into a slow dance. My body instinctively takes the lead, guiding her with confidence. Her warmth, the rhythm of the song, and the memories it stirs up make everything feel right in this moment.
Locking eyes with her, I begin to sing along, “ Volare , oh, oh. E cantare , oh, oh, oh, oh. No wonder my happy heart sings. Your love has given me wings.”
“You can sing?” she asks, completely ignoring the words I just sang to her.
“Everyone can sing, Arabella.”
“Not in key. Dante, your voice is beautiful. ”
“I know,” I reply, smirking.
“Your dancing is incredible, too. Very smooth.”
I lift one shoulder nonchalantly. “There isn’t much I’m not good at.”
Her eyes narrow slightly with a hint of scepticism, but I just widen my smile in return.
It may sound like I’m full of myself, but it’s the truth. When you spend your life yearning for the kind of recognition my brother received so effortlessly from our father, you learn to push yourself harder in everything you do, whether you want to or not.
“Call me an overachiever,” I say, with a bit of dry humour creeping into my voice, “but it’s the truth. I excelled at everything growing up. Sports, school, music, art … even social situations. I excelled in all areas of life. The girls loved me, and all the boys wanted to be me.”
“Hmm,” she hums. “You’re very modest too, Mr Mancini.”
I lean in and brush my lips against hers. “And you are davvero bellissima (Really beautiful), Mrs Mancini,” I say, swinging her around and waltzing her across the room.
“That was a little swoony,” she says, swaying a bit on her feet.
“Swoony?”
“I read it in the book Lucia left behind.”
I bark out a laugh, shaking my head. “Did you finish it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“How was it?” I ask.
“It was good, you know, for a fictional story, but I like my reality better. I’d much rather have my real-life sexy times with my husband than read about it between the pages.”
I arch an eyebrow as something in my chest takes flight. “Sexy times? ”
“That’s what the heroine in the story called it.”
I spin her again, and when she squeals and lets out a giggle, I dip her backwards, kissing those luscious lips of hers.
The next verse is in Italian, and I know the words to most of my father’s records because I had to listen to them often enough over the years.
“ E volavo, volavo felice piu in alto del sole ed ancora piu su. Metre il mondo pian piano spariva lontano laggiu (And I flew, I flew happily higher than the sun and higher still. While the world slowly disappeared far away down there).”
That’s exactly how I feel when I’m with this woman. The chaos and uncertainty that constantly surround my life seem to fade into the background. All I see is her .
When I was forced to marry this woman in order to get my nephew back, I honestly thought I was sealing my fate. That I’d be facing a life of misery. I was wrong. Arabella has changed me in ways I couldn’t imagine. She makes me happy … happier than I ever thought possible.
It’s Christmas Eve, and my wife is on a mission. She wants to bring cheer to my men, their families, and the less fortunate in our community.
I love her even more for doing this.
Love her?
Fuck!
I’ve never been in love before, but the sense of euphoria I get when she’s around tells me maybe I am. Her smile, her laugh, the way she moves. That damn fluttering in my chest whenever I see her.
In the beginning, I hoped we’d be able to come to a mutual understanding, at best, a friendship. I never thought I’d get here in such a short time .
Will she be able to love me back one day?
I push that thought from my mind. I’ll unpack that shit later. Right now, Romeo and I have a shitload of hampers to load into the back of the truck that just reversed up my driveway.
“I can’t believe Arabella has put all this together on her own,” Romeo says as we head back into the house to collect some more. “It’s impressive and will mean a lot to the men.”
“It was all her idea, but I’m completely on board. I think you guys have come to mean a lot to her. She enjoys having you all over when we have our meetings.”
“We all think the world of her too.” He reaches up and places his hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you found someone like her. She fits in so well with your life.”
“She does,” I say, grinning.
“I hope I find a woman that complements me like that one day.”
I once thought I was marrying someone with a heart made of stone-cold ice, but I now know it’s made of pure gold. My wife has spent the past week painstakingly cooking, boxing, shopping, and wrapping each basket with love and care. She baked over a hundred panettone, which is a traditional Italian Christmas cake. It’s a cross between a cake and sweet bread and is filled with almonds and dried fruit. As well as almost a thousand amaretti biscuits. She’s a goddamn machine.
The most generous thing my father would do was to hand out cash bonuses to our men, which I’ll also be doing, but this year, it will have a more personal touch. We’ve ordered hundreds of smoked hams, chickens, and turkeys.
Arabella is inside getting changed while we load everything onto the truck. We are heading to a local church—the same one I attended as a kid—where my mother devoted much of her time when she was alive.
Romeo said that when he drove past, people were already queuing outside. Some of the locals look up to me like I’m a god, but others loathe and fear me, all because of my name. They see my connections to the Cosa Nostra and judge me accordingly.
I’m determined to change that narrative by giving back to the community that has been my home my entire life, helping those who need it most. This is my chance to make a real impact and prove that I’m more than they believe. I’m not my father; I don’t rule through fear and manipulation.
While my world may be morally grey at times, my wife constantly inspires me to be better.