3. Dante
3
DANTE
I can’t sleep.
My mind won’t stop racing with my new responsibilities as a professor of music. My life has well and truly fallen to shit. Anything else would be better than this.
Even prison.
As if the run-in with my nephew and his latest piece—that stacked brunette with the blue-gray eyes and an ass that’s a true masterpiece—wasn’t bad enough, I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to set up my office.
But instead of unpacking and settling in, my office turned into a revolving door. None of the chits who stopped in looked old enough to have finished puberty, but each and every one took her time eye-fucking me while making up questions about my classes. The jocks that followed them only ever stood in the open doorway, glaring daggers at me like they thought I’d steal their girls right there.
Thankfully, I have a killer death stare— ha ha —and the pups backed down quick enough.
They shouldn’t have bothered since I have no interest in seducing any of the giggling airheads who wouldn’t stop whispering about the new hot professor.
They probably think my class is going to be a joke. Something they can sign up for to easily meet their elective credit requirement. Because what kid wants to play an instrument when they could be out partying all night, finding a new hookup each weekend just by swiping on their phones?
This is a private college. One notorious for catering to the rich and influential families dotting the eastern seaboard.
Full of trust funds, spoiled rich kids, and too much entitlement.
News flash, I plan on being the most hated teacher on campus. If these little pricks think I’m going to sit behind a desk and let them throw paper airplanes around, the joke’s on them.
Because if there’s one thing I still take seriously, it’s the feeling of my violin bow in my hand. When my eyes close and the serenity of silence fills the air right before I summon the first note.
It’s an exceptional high.
One I’m sure most of these kids think they know all about, but theirs are swallowed or smoked. God forbid they do anything useful with their hands.
I leave my office, stepping into the corridor and locking the door behind me. The halls are empty, and I know the external doors lock after a certain time, although I don’t recall what time that is. I’m not worried. I have a teacher’s badge and no one said I couldn’t be in the music building after hours.
The smell of cleaning products has me glancing down at the shiny hardwood floors. They glimmer under the dim lighting and I wonder how much they pay for maintenance around this place, whether parents complain at the smallest scuff marks. You could eat off these damn floors.
Striding down a long hall and taking a right, I hear a girl’s voice bark out, “I’m not doing it! Stop asking me.”
I immediately freeze. All the classroom doors are closed, and I slowly continue down the hall as the girl keeps speaking.
“I don’t understand what you’re not comprehending. I saw you. I saw you, and you can forget about next summer, Liam.”
My nephew.
It could be another female student, but I remember him mentioning something about summer and Victoria earlier. My curiosity overtakes my exhaustion and I can’t help but listen in.
“God, that sucks for you,” the female continues. She must be talking on the phone since I don’t hear anyone else moving or speaking. “Do you really think I give a shit about what your friends think? I’m not your side piece, Liam! I’m not going to stand idly by while you do whatever you want. I’m not blind and stupid!”
Something slams against a hard surface right next to me, and I zero in on the janitor’s closet.
It’d be a good hiding place…if you used your inside voice.
“I’m not talking about this anymore,” she yells. “Stop calling me! Tell your mother that whatever fantasy she had about us is over. And don’t show up at my dorm room again!”
A brief silence fills the hallway when Victoria’s—I think it’s her—next words actually catch me off guard.
“I wouldn’t want to be related to her anyway. She’s just an entitled socialite who married rich just so she didn’t have to work a day in her life. She looks at me like I’m some troll. I’m tired of her staring at me like I have two heads and being nice to her when she’s nothing but awful to me. She acts like you can do better, like I’m somehow beneath you. Tell her she can finally find you someone more deserving.”
Huh.
That doesn’t sound so different from the Marissa I know that it couldn’t be true. My sister-in-law is a judgy woman who thinks she’s better than the Virgin Mary herself. The most notable difference, however, is that Marissa is a whore.
I can only imagine what kind of man she’s trying to nail down so she can keep up her spending. Marco may have been a millionaire, but based on what Liam said, she’s well on her way to blowing that inheritance within a year.
The door to the janitor’s storage closet suddenly swings open, almost clipping me in the bicep, when the one and only Victoria Waldorf steps out in a tight white dress that looks too sinful to be considered appropriate for a university classroom.
There’s a slit up her thigh and white fringe stretches around her hips, teasing at the hem of the skirt. The neckline is cut dangerously low and the whole ensemble is held up by just two thin straps. I’m surprised neither one has snapped as she breathes heavily, her tits straining against the confining fabric.
“Professor Moretti,” she gasps the moment I step into view. The palm that’s still holding her sparkly cell phone covers her heart. “What are you— You scared me.”
“You always take your personal phone calls in the janitor’s closet?”
“No,” she quickly says, straightening her spine as if I’m her drill sergeant. “I was just—well, I needed privacy and my dorm is on the other side of campus.”
One of my brows ascends to the ceiling and I make a point of checking up and down the empty hallway. “Because there are so many people around to hear your conversation.”
Victoria frowns and I fight the urge to give a shit about what she’s doing or why. I don’t care if she slept in that closet, it’s not my problem.
“I got into a fight with Liam.”
Not my business, but good for you.
I continue to stare at her. As a violin professor, I’m supposed to tell her how to hold her hand, fingers, and instrument to create technically proficient music.
Not become her free therapist.
“Anyway,” she says with a sigh when I don’t respond. “That’s college, right? Boy drama and fights.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Victoria nods, blowing out her cheeks and shifting her weight. “Right. I’ll just…go talk to my best friend about it.”
I gesture to the open hallway, hoping she’ll take her leave without feeling the need to tell me anything else about why she was hiding in a closet. Unfortunately, she doesn’t move an inch.
“Is Liam…always self-centered?”
Yes.
The kid wouldn’t wipe his own ass if he could get someone else to do it. There are two maids, one for Marissa and the other for Liam. They practically do everything for them, making their meals, doing their laundry, and making sure the house is absolutely spotless. One of them even tried to clean the guest house when I arrived, but I banned them both from entering my living space. I can look after myself and I don’t need people in my things.
Somehow my nephew and sister-in-law still find a way to bitch about needing better help.
“I’d tell you to go speak to his mother, but you don’t seem like a fan.”
Victoria’s lips part and her eyes widen. “You eavesdropped,” she accuses.
“You have the stealthiness of a fog horn, Miss Waldorf,” I reply flatly. “People probably heard you on the other side of campus.”
She blushes furiously and I can’t say I hate the soft pink color flooding her cheeks and spanning the bridge of her nose. Her freckles are thrown into sharp relief by the flush. “I’ll remember that next time.”
“Focus on school,” I tell her, trying to sound like a teacher.
“Obviously.” She rolls her eyes. “If I don’t, I’ll end up turning into a Stepford wife like everyone else here.”
“And that would be bad?”
Victoria clenches her jaw and stares past me, focusing on some spot on the far wall. “Contrary to popular belief, Professor Moretti, not every girl at Thronewood wants to earn her M-R-S degree. Some of us have other plans. Ones that don’t include long wedding dresses and popping out babies within a year of saying ‘I do’. It’s the twenty-first century, women don’t need men anymore.”
“I can think of a few reasons why we’d still be useful.”
Her attention slices back to me and all traces of her embarrassment are gone. I meant orgasms. Victoria clearly thinks I meant something more misogynistic, based on her fire-breathing expression. She looks ready to rip my dick off.
“You would ,” she bites out. “I guess the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree since you’re related to Liam. That Moretti entitlement is absolutely suffocating. It’s not an attractive look.”
“I can assure you that we’re not the same.”
“I beg to differ.”
“And when I start giving a fuck, I’ll let you know.” Victoria’s jaw drops. I’ve probably crossed a line using that kind of language with a student. I’m sure there are plenty of other rules I’ve broken since accepting the job, but I’d have to give two shits to consider changing my behavior. “You’re dismissed, Miss Waldorf. I’ll not be walking you back to your dorm.”
“How chivalrous of you,” she sneers. “But I can assure you that of the two of us, I’m the more dangerous.”
Cocking my head to the side, I find myself reluctantly intrigued by this feisty little brunette that somehow thinks she has a leg-up over me. “Are you? Tell me, are you going to strangle me with your trust fund? Or will you run to the dean whining about how I didn’t kiss your ass or hold your hand while you fought with a boy? A boy you shouldn’t have been messing with in the first place?”
“Funny, he said the same thing about you.”
“Well, Liam’s always been intimidated by other men. I can only imagine why. His inability to deliver anything more exciting than lackluster sex is probably one reason.”
“Are you seriously talking to me like this? Not only is it inappropriate, but?—”
“Let’s get one thing straight, Miss Waldorf,” I calmly interrupt. “I hold the cards here. I can have you removed from my class. After all, I just met you earlier today and I’ve already caught you trespassing in my classroom and now I’ve found you drunk and undera?—”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Prove it.” Victoria glares daggers at me, but keeps quiet. Neither of us has a breathalyzer handy to prove our point. “Checkmate, Miss Waldorf. Now…run along and get back to your room. Our first class is Monday and I would hate for you to miss it because you partied too hard this weekend. I don’t tolerate tardiness. It’s grounds for expulsion from my class. I only accept the best of the best when it comes to my time and my students. You already have enough working against you.”
Victoria raises her haughty little chin and marches down the deserted corridor. Each step is a clear “fuck you” for telling her what to do and not caving into her wants. I’ll be damned if I let her use me and my position as Liam’s uncle to make things go her way.
She’s too good for the little prick anyway.
And that’s saying a lot.
I decide to spend a bit longer in the music building, just so it doesn’t look like I’m stalking the ever-so-annoying Miss Waldorf, and pivot toward my classroom. What I really need is a fucking drink. From now on, I’ll make sure to have a bottle of Campari in my desk for these sorts of occasions. Class hasn’t even begun and these college kids are already a pain in my ass. I don’t know how I’m going to keep from killing one of them.
Not bothering to turn the lights on, I stride toward the front of the room, only for the fluorescent lights to flick on and reveal a heavy-set man in an all-black suit sitting in my chair.
He’s not a kid.
Definitely not a teacher, since he’s sucking casually on a thick cigar and looking a bit too smug about sitting at my desk. He’s managed to make himself at home and is acting like I’ve entered his domain.
My skin pricks at the back of my neck as I look over my shoulder to find two other dudes on either side of the door I just entered through. Both have their arms crossed over their chests, meaty biceps flexing against dark shirts.
Bodyguards.
“Mr. Moretti,” the man in front of me greets in a thick Italian accent. “Sorry to drop in like this…but you’re a hard man to find off campus.”
It’s because I rarely leave it.
I’d rather be here than avoiding my brother’s awful widow while hiding in his guest house.
Well, that was true before I had to deal with all the students dropping by today, not to mention two run-ins with the impertinent Miss Waldorf in one day.
Taking my chances with Marissa can’t be any worse.
“And you are?” I ask. This man sure as hell isn’t one of the deans. And he certainly wasn’t present at the Thronewood faculty and staff mixer last week.
“Angelo Lombardi.” He stares at me as if that’s supposed to mean something. Between his air of authority and pure arrogance at walking onto campus after hours, it’s clear he’s some kind of bigshot. “Of the Lombardi mob.”
What in the actual fuck?
I bite back the question, among others, before I can give away my ignorance.
Better to let this Angelo Lombardi character clue me in as to why he thinks I’m worth a trek to Thronewood.
“By the look on your face,” Angelo admits, “this conversation needs alcohol and a whole lot of time. Time I’m unable to offer at the moment.”
“Try,” I deadpan, waiting for someone to make a move. Rival mobs are all over Italy and I’ve had a few run-ins. Well, more than just run-ins.
Turns out joining a mob is a great way to wind up in prison on assault charges. But I left that life behind in Italy after nearly beating someone to death and serving time for assault. That kind of violence changes a person, makes them rethink their choices.
“Then I’ll cut to the chase,” Angelo continues, slowly rising from my chair and coming around the desk. He’s in his late fifties, and they haven’t been easy years telling by the stress lines etching his forehead and the corners of his eyes. “Marco, your brother…he owed me money.”
My blood instantly runs cold. Marco ran off to the States to get away from all the mob bullshit. To steer clear of the greed and corruption infecting the Italian government.
Life with the mob is filled with blood, murder, and convenient accidents.
Accidents related to failures and lack of loyalty.
“If the next words that come out of your mouth are that you murdered my brother, Angelo …I suggest you have your men pull out their guns and drop me right now.”
“Now, why would I do that?” he says through a puff of smoke. “I still wouldn’t have my money.”
I curl my fingers into tight fists. I won’t just be able to let this go. Not if there’s any truth to Lombardi’s claims. I lost my mother and father to a mob hit.
My thirst for revenge drove me straight into the arms of a rival mob. I fought my way up the ranks, killed men for the privilege, and eventually I got my reward when I hunted down the motherfucker who gunned down my parents in cold blood.
For nothing.
Dad was a baker. Mom was a teacher.
There’s no reason why they shouldn’t be here today.
And now I have this fat fuck implying he murdered the only family member I had left.
Angelo Lombardi slips a crisp white business card from his shirt pocket, extending it to me. I let it hover in the air between us.
If he believes that he’s gonna bully me into paying him back, he’s in for a rude awakening.
“Take it, Moretti,” Angelo orders, a hint of irritation shading his voice. “You know it will only get worse if we leave things…unresolved.”
My pride keeps me still, but he steps forward anyway, needing to assert his dominance.
“I know who you are, Dante. An old member of the Giordanos. Ruthless mob back in the mother country. I could use that kind of man.” He slides the business card into my front pocket, giving it a patronizing tap for good measure. “Call this number by the end of the week. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you have the funds and intend to pay back the six million dollars Marco failed to return to me.”
And on that note, Angelo disappears through the door, leaving behind an air of despair in my bland beige and brown classroom.
What the hell did my brother get into?
Marco worked in investments, sure, but he had a spotless reputation. Never failed an audit.
He was supposed to be better than me.
He promised.