Chapter 41
41
Dante
A fter Matteo straps way too many weapons onto our wife, and Valentine returns her missing gun, she goes to walk off again, assuming lead position.
“Are you serious right now?” I try to stop the petulant snarl and icy bite to my voice, but the way she sways those hips, so seemingly unconcerned about the fucking danger lurking in the shadows is…distracting
She spins and stares wide-eyed at me. But it’s a ploy. After being around her, I can read her better, and she’s purposely winding me up. In her way, she’s reinforcing what I can already see with my eyes, that she really is fine.
I may be starting to learn more about her, but I’m still hopeless in my defenses against her. It’s a strange headspace to be in, and one that I have no desire to escape. A small tug lifts the edges of her lips before they twist into a sultry smirk as she clicks her fingers at the dogs. Intentionally, she’s teasing and taunting me, and goddamn, I need it.
The dogs heel almost instantly, and I have to work really fucking hard to stop myself from doing the same. Her sass is a good reminder that she’s alive and back with us, but an equally good reminder she was taken in the first place.
She waits for a moment, watching me closely until she speaks. “Better?”
“No,” I growl out. I’m under her spell but not fucking immune to the fury still bubbling inside my head. It leaks out of me, making my scent get sharp and as salty as I am. “Layne, it doesn’t matter if we are walking into Belmondo to get Valentine a gelato, or if we’re heading off to war, you do not, and I repeat, you do not ever go first. I do. That is my job, and it always will be!”
My slightly dramatic, and emotionally laden speech, reaches her. I can see it by the way she looks at me before choosing her next words carefully. “Can I walk next to you?”
She doesn’t even bother trying to hide the hint of amusement that makes her eyes glitter golden. I love seeing her like this, but I hate it too. Now is not the time to tease.
“No. See what I mean? Now, you look here.” I get all up in her face as my stress surges further out of my control. A hundred or so reasons for my concern blur my mind, and I jab my finger so close to her nose her eyes cross. “It’s not about you not being strong enough, it’s about me not being strong enough.”
And the truth bubbles out of my fucking mouth. Again. Like it always does when I’m with her.
Her eyes flare wide. And she gasps, completely thrown by my honesty. “What?”
Since I’m already on a slippery slope of mushy confessions, I just go with it. “I’d be a fucking mess, Layne, if anything more happened to you. I would go on an Alpha rage for days. Please let me just make sure you’re safe, no matter the situation.” I take a deep breath and make a grab for her hand. “I won’t hold you back, but I will be your first line of defense. Forever.”
Her eyes dig deep inside my soul for confirmation that I’m being honest before her doubt fades away and her eyes fill with glittering gold again. “What’s Belmondo?”
“That’s what you got from that?” I snarl, but before I can argue, or apologize for being an asshole, she renders me useless. Her hand glides up my chest to sit gently against the back of my neck, then she drags me down to her level.
Her lips are on mine before I can blink.
And then I don’t want to blink. I don’t want to break the searing and crazy connection we share, because in her eyes, I’m reading all my dreams coming true.
With every passing second, she’s turning me into a sap. A really fucking ecstatic sap.
My wife is next level, and she pampers my ego until it’s soaring sky high. “If you’re in front, I guess I get to check your ass out, Dante. And there’s no way I’d say no to that. Let’s go,” she says, taking an obvious step back and looking me up and down in such a dirty, filthy way, I nearly sport a hard-on.
Matteo chuckles knowingly as he slides into position behind her, and Valentine reaches out to hold her hand in his. We take a step, and like seems to always be the case, our steps are synchronized like we’re one instead of four.
I whistle sharply, making a sweeping motion with my hands. The dogs take off, tearing away, and get immediately lost in the shadows. Stopping in front of our pack, I make everyone wait at what I perceive to be a safe distance until the dogs return to sit at her feet. And since the dogs aren’t agitated or checking back inside the hangar, I read it as a sign we’re relatively safe.
Unwilling to relinquish the lead until I see for myself, I follow in the same steps as the dogs around the inside of the hangar before waving the rest of Pack De Luca forward.
As soon as they stand with me, we cross the threshold into the hangar.
Everyone makes slow and measured steps inside as we take in the scene, and it’s both intriguing and incriminating. The hangar is mostly empty, except for an area near the door that’s set up like a boardroom. Tables and chairs are arranged in one zone, a sitting area, complete with leather sofas, in another. Against the wall are fridges and tables, probably for drinks and food, which isn’t all that unusual, considering the clientele that generally uses private jets. What is unusual are the handful of bodies—some in police uniform, others in expensive suits, that litter the floor.
The dead are incidental and irrelevant, in a way. Obviously, if they’re here, they’re not innocent, but what is intriguing is the older man dressed in a sharp, blue-and-white pinstripe suit, his head hanging forward, hiding his face. But he’s still very much alive. And it’s not really him that’s interesting; it’s the way my wife’s horrified gaze hasn’t left him.
The scent of her distress is like being shot in the chest. It’s painful and impossible to ignore. Her usual caramel scent, even hidden under the harsh chemicals of the blockers, is suddenly acerbic in her fear.
I fucking hate the terror wafting off my wife. It guts me.
Valentine’s already talking to her. The actual words he uses are lost under the blast of adrenaline in my ears, but I can certainly pick up his concern. Whatever he’s saying is coming from a place of comfort, not from a place of needing to know what the fuck is going on.
She takes a series of overly large gulps of air before she shakes off Valentine’s touch to brace her hands on her knees. It’s like our girl is collapsing in on herself before our very eyes. It physically pains me to see her so lost in her fear.
“Layne?” I ask gently as I move in front of her, bending down to try to see if there are any answers in her eyes. My worry for her is based on me needing to understand if she’s physically okay, or if I have to run her out of here.
“I just need a sec, baby,” she says as soon as she sees me. Her voice cracks and is unusually hoarse, her eyes shifting back to the man slumped in the chair like she’s expecting him to jump scare her.
I’d never fucking let that happen.
Rubbing my hand over her shoulders, trying to let her know on a different level we’re all here for her, my worry increases exponentially when I feel how locked up tight she is. And her panic isn’t letting up; she keeps gulping and making a noise in the back of her throat like her airways are constricting.
“Talk to me,” I urge
Valentine is talking to her too. The dogs circle closer. Matteo stands behind her, lending his own support. But Layne is Layne, and she doesn’t rush through her emotions or reactions any quicker. She squeezes her eyes shut before focusing her energy on slowing her breathing, already knowing how close she is to hyperventilating.
It’s excruciating to watch, but at least she isn’t hiding how shaken she is from us or rushing through her emotions because she’s uncomfortable with us. If anything, she’s letting us be a part of it. It’s an honor, a testament to the way we’re becoming pack.
Time feels like it’s about to drag to a stop as she continues fighting the minefield in her mind. We intentionally drown her in our scent and our varying touches, reminding her in any way we can that we are here.
I wish it wasn’t so fucking obvious who the man is.
I’m positive that there would only be two people in the entire world to incite such a sudden crest of absolute terror and fear in my wife. Since he’s older than any of us, I’d put everything I have on this being her father, Attorney General Harrison Ronald Rothchild, the cunt.
It’s not my place to rush her for confirmation. I’m here to give her the space she needs while she sorts through the rush of memories and nightmares.
I feel her take one more steady breath before she stands back up. She fluffs her hair and smooths a hand over her tattered clothes.
“It’s my father.” Her voice is husky, the emotion still constricting how she speaks, but she’s coming back to us. Her confidence is returning word by word. “And now I’m really pissed at Ronin and Santiago. The least they could have done was kill the asshole first. They said they left me a gift, but that”—she glares at him—“is not the sort of present I want.”
I step in front of her to shield her from what I’m about to do, and Valentine is already doing the same, instinctively knowing my actions before they happen. He tugs her to him, his hand cupping behind her head, and makes sure to cover her ear. Triple-checking for myself she’s properly protected, I turn back to her cunt of a father and fire point blank into the top of his head.
Layne’s anxiety that was strangling thick and toxic, like smog, starts to recede. Her scent sweetens, and her posture adjusts like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders. But it’s the subtle shift in the haunted look in her eyes that confirms that, no matter how much I wanted to prolong the torture of her sick fuck of a father, dealing with him swiftly had more an impact for Layne. And that’s what my life is all about, her. Helping her find her nirvana—emotionally, physically, sexually, and spiritually—because she is my all.
It is her relief that appeases my lust for retribution against her father, more than any of his potential suffering. The more I watch her, the more the voices in my head quiet. The internal chatter about whether I should have pushed her into letting me take him back to our building, with the intention of torturing and maiming him for as long as I could, all but evaporates. This death was not about me.
I look at Valentine for his confirmation, and the mask on his face is torn by a similar conflict. I can see it plain as day. Likewise, I can also read his growing support and gratitude for making the split decision I did to end her father. Quicker than he deserved.
Matteo is still vibrating in his anger, working through how easily and painlessly her father died. But his eyes are locked on her. He finds his own acceptance in the way Layne regains herself.
“Thank you,” she whispers. Her voice is still muffled as she leans against Valentine’s chest, but her relief is deep, and the way she relaxes is like watching the sun rise on a new day.
We’re all impacted by it.
In Valentine’s arms, she looks at me first, then Matteo, checking we’re still here, then she takes another deep exhale and turns to Valentine, finding her safe place to fall apart. And again, she doesn’t hide or pretend it’s not happening. She fucking collapses against him. Her breathing gets strangled until her sobs break free.
“God, I totally ruined the one opportunity I had of making him suffer, didn’t I?” she says, her breathing shuddering before she takes another shaky, emotional inhale. “I hope you can forgive me?—”
“Nothing to forgive,” Valentine barks, answering for Matteo and me.
She smiles—it’s forced, but it’s infinitely better than the terror on her face from before—and then she continues talking. “It would have killed me to have him anywhere near our home. Also, the thought of him around you… Well, yeah.” She shakes her head, her voice low. “Sometimes death needs to be quick, but it doesn’t make it any less brutal. I hope that makes sense to you, because it makes a lot of sense to me.”
I was going to rush over and comfort my brave wife, but instead, I turn on my heel and march back to the cunt and empty every bullet in my gun into the dead fucker.
Once I’m done, Matteo steps up and scoops her into his arms.
“We’re done here. Don’t leave anything unnecessary.” Valentine’s voice is clipped when he speaks to me, but in the next moment, he’s talking into his phone.
I half pay attention to Valentine calling in a favor with one of the senior contacts we have at the FBI. But this scene is too good an opportunity for the truth to be hidden. I might not have had the opportunity to actually torture her father, but in his death, my pack will do everything in our power to tarnish his name. We will make other people, in both our world and the legal world, aware he was in the same boat of every fucking criminal he’s sent to prison.
Unsurprisingly, my wife is already on the same path as me. “I hope wherever his spirit goes now, he gets the chance to see how stupidly in love with my pack I am and catches me defending my clients against people like him in the courtroom. Ruining the Rothchild name is the worst thing we could ever do to him.”
The Rothchild name will be poison by the time we’re finished.
Matteo turns and takes her outside, giving me the chance to finish what needs doing.
I find a veritable pot of fucking gold on the table next to his body too. If the FBI wants evidence, this is going to have them fucking weeping. The files might be coated with the wet and glistening remains of his intelligence, but they’re also full of his notes. Obviously, he was getting fucking cocky, or maybe he always had been, because seriously, the shit he’s got listed in his files are akin to a drug mule sticking baggies all over his bare body.
And seeing the set-up of the hangar, it’s not a leap to assume he was meeting someone for a reason. The pompous fuck even had his monogrammed stationery set out, his engraved pen at the ready to take notes. If I’m reading the room right, the dead cops were here for him to hide behind, which also means they never expected any trouble from the people in the charter who were here to collect my wife.
Snatching up one of the files, and rifling through the briefcase at his feet, I decide the deeds and agreements I find will serve me more than the detectives who will be assigned the case. Fuck me, I’m leaving them a treasure trove of evidence as it is. I leave behind his phone, because even though we’ve got people on the inside of the law, there’s a bigger group in the FBI that want to lock us away forever. Having the phone of the dead attorney general would be incriminating, although it would make an excellent trophy for our shelves.
I do a quick sweep of anything else important or that could be traceable to us. The bullets I’ve left inside her father are going to be a puzzle for the investigators to mull over, but they’re not going to lead to me. The gun I used is a dime a dozen on the streets.
Before leaving, I take a series of photos of the dead men, with the intention of figuring out who is who. But also, in case we need to visit anyone else in the dead of night to keep my wife’s identity a secret.
Valentine waits out of sight, just in case his call to the feds has drones already out, watching. It’s unlikely to happen, but that's what we thought about our wife being snatched right from in front of us too.
“The plot thickens.” My brother's voice is still laced with anger, and his scent is too. It’s a warning to stay away, but only to others. I walk up and hug him, glad we’re all back together. His arms hold me closer, so he can talk into my ear. “So, we’re clear, Dante, Diego will suffer the death of a hundred cuts, or anything that has him crippled with pain and fear.”
“Of course, brother. Layne’s father’s death wasn’t for us—it was for her. Diego, though, he’s ours to torture. His pain will be penance for everything he’ll never be able to repay.”
“And if Layne says she doesn’t want that to be the case?” he asks, his tone as frigid as mine.
I squeeze him harder, smiling when I pull away, so I can look at him. “She won’t, Valentine. Layne will let us do whatever we need because Diego doesn’t scare her. Her father did, and now that he’s dead, he can’t scare her anymore. Let’s get out of here and figure this out.”
Valentine and I jog the short distance to the Escalade. Matteo is already sitting in the back seat next to our wife. Bella is on one side of her, Edward on the other, although the poor dog is almost lost under the sea of bags from our ill-fated shopping trip.
“Are you okay, Layne?” Valentine asks as soon as we start driving away.
His question is unnecessary, because she doesn’t smell like fear has a grip on her anymore, and her eyes are no longer hiding anything from us, but I’m guessing he needs to hear confirmation from her lips as well. “I will be,” she says, her tone back to normal. “I wasn’t expecting him to be here, front and center, when I walked in. I mean, I wasn’t expecting to see him at all.”
I keep glancing at her in the mirror. She’s peering out the window, and it’s not until we’re merging back in with the afternoon traffic and heading away from the airport she looks at me.
She waits until I check on her again in the rearview mirror. “Dante, thank you for dealing with him. And thank you for not dragging it out or suggesting we take him home and torture him.”
“You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you?” I implore without any hesitation.
She closes her eyes, a smile on her face. “Learning that.”
A moment later, Matteo pulls her against his shoulder, and she melts against him. Taking full advantage of knowing she’s safe, she completely taps out of the moment. She doesn’t talk, she barely moves, and though her breathing gets choppy on a couple of occasions, she sinks into a peace.
Valentine keeps twisting around to check on her, but Matteo is taking good care of our wife. His protective arms don’t leave her, his jacket over her legs, and he keeps rubbing his face over any part of her body he can, scent marking her as ours.
Each time he repeats the gesture, she relaxes even more.
She only opens her eyes when Valentine takes a call. He tries to keep his voice down, so he doesn’t disrupt her rest, but it’s the blaze of bitter anger on his scent that has her sitting up and reaching for him.
Instead of hiding what he’s doing, he puts his cell on to speaker, and she can hear the conversation for herself.
“I couldn’t ignore his request for help, Valentine. And stop being a cock about it, because you know you’d do the same if I asked, or if he asked you first. No shit, sometimes it's hard to get through your thick head. But I did what you would’a. I turned the plane around and flew to where I needed to be because of Trinity. So, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s got ya so wound up still?” Ronin’s accent gets thicker the more he speaks.
Valentine hisses, his mood dipping down lower. He talks through clenched teeth. “You both neglected to tell me my wife was safe!”
Ronin nearly snorts, he laughs so hard. “Have you met your wife? She’s a hellion. And she’s got Santiago wrapped around her little finger. Honestly, we were there no’ even five minutes, and he’s all Layne this, Layne that . It’s doing me head in.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad she shot him. Where are you headed?”
Another voice joins the conversation. “Wait, you’re okay? Honestly, Val, you are okay?”
“With what, Santiago? With fucking what?” Valentine snaps again, bellowing down the phone.
I suspect, if Layne wasn’t here, he would roar even louder. I love his restraint. I would have lost it at Ronin by now and shot the phone to shut his Irish mouth up.
From the back seat, the sweetest sound floats our way. Kind of. Layne scoffs, her laughter thick with disbelief. Without using any words, our sweet wife confirms Santiago did actually do something to Layne.
Unsurprisingly, the three of us start snarling and growling like a pack of wild dogs.
Ronin just talks louder, over the top of the noises we make. But it's also clear he’s talking with Santiago. “Ya feckin’ idiot. Now they will know what you did.”
“What did he do?” I swing around to look at Layne.
“Santiago, I swear, what did you do, and what have you done?” Valentine snaps, silencing all of us.
But Ronin is loving the drama and steers the conversation again. “Well, that wouldn’t be right if we told you, now would it? But maybe it’s also time for the next chapter in our own respective stories too. Now I’d stay and be chatting with ya, but the reception’s awful bad up here. No doubt we’ll be talking again sooner rather than later, but Valentine, don't you be forgetting why we formed Trinity.”
Ronin clearly thinks he’s a fucking stand-up comedian, with the way he’s speaking and avoiding answering my brother. Unsurprisingly, the call cuts off.
What is surprising is how accurately Ronin hit the nail on the fucking head. Our story is right here, looking fucking better with every passing moment and scenting a storm. And Layne with us is all that matters.
Valentine holds on to his phone. I think he’s waiting for them to call back, but it stays silent.
“Please tell me you’re cooking tonight, Val. And then I need a bath, Dante.” Her voice has a different edge to it. Maybe it was hearing Ronin, or perhaps what he said reached her too, but Layne keeps everyone's focus on what is important, us.
Valentine’s voice remains strained because his emotions will take longer for him to resolve, but he’s trying. He’s fighting against his own ghosts, his own failures and vicious anger, to stay present for her.
He clears his throat and uses a different tone when he answers her. “Of course. What do you feel like?”
“The risotto from the other night was good.”
The way Layne already knows Valentine needs something he can anchor to as a funnel for his need to care for her is as obvious as the way I can see she needs to be pampered.
“Ah, well, I cooked that one, babe,” I say, twisting around to wink at my girl. She smiles in return before sinking against Matteo’s shoulder.
“Interesting,” she says with her eyes closed. “But I want Valentine to cook.”
Matteo pipes up. “Valentine’s specialty is an old recipe from Nonna, crumbed steak and dauphinoise potatoes.”
She hums softly. “Actually, that sounds better than risotto. Is that okay, Dante, if Valentine makes us dinner tonight?”
“Pretty sure I told you not even a minute ago, baby—anything you want, I’m good with.”
Valentine spends a fair bit of his time on his phone, reading Nonna’s recipe on how to make dauphinoise potatoes again, while juggling texts from Legos and Leon. I suspect, once Layne is tucked in bed, we will be meeting with our closest allies to figure out our next move, but she doesn’t need to be involved. She’s done more than enough today.
I turn the radio on low. The sound of the latest hits is background noise at best, but I also hope the catchy tunes keeps Layne out of her head. And it works for a while.
Layne sits up suddenly. “Was anyone hurt at the shop?”
“Not badly,” Valentine answers, stopping me before I even opened my mouth to answer her. “I also offered to pay for any damages.”
“Thank you,” she says softly.
Valentine gets another call; he ignores it, although his mood drops again. He holds up the screen for everyone to see. It’s Diego, and the call rings out before he tries again right away.
“Return his call when we get home,” Matteo suggests as he rubs his face on her shoulder.
Valentine grunts an agreement, then turns to face Layne. “After dinner, Dante, Matteo, and I are paying Diego and Rosa a visit. Legos and Leon will be guarding the door, the dogs will stay on alert, and we will have the security system on, but you are in my bed.”
“Sounds perfect to me. Besides,” she pipes up, “I’m not going tomorrow without my engagement ring.”