Chapter 41
Dante
The pounding in my head isn't just from the hangover—someone's actually pounding on my door.
I crack one eye open and immediately regret it as sunlight stabs through my skull like a rusty knife.
The empty beer bottles on the coffee table tell the story of how I've spent the last three days, and my mouth tastes like something crawled in there and died.
The pounding continues, insistent and rhythmic. Probably my landlord, wondering why I haven't answered his calls about the rent that's definitely late. I try to ignore it, pulling a pillow over my head, but whoever's out there isn't giving up.
"Dante." The voice cuts through the door like a blade. "Open up."
Vito. Of course. Because this day wasn't going to be shitty enough on its own.
I stumble to my feet, nearly tripping over the minefield of empty bottles I've created around the couch. My clothes are wrinkled from sleeping in them for God knows how many days. Not exactly the image of a professional enforcer.
I unlock the door and pull it open, squinting against the hallway light. Vito stands there in his perfectly pressed suit, looking like he just stepped out of a magazine spread while I look like I just crawled out of a dumpster. Marco stands next to him like a silent sentinel.
"Jesus, Dante." His expression shifts from mild annoyance to genuine concern as he takes in my appearance. "You look like hell."
"Feel worse," I mumble, turning away from the door and leaving it open for him to follow. "What do you want?"
He steps inside but exchanges a look with Marco, who stays outside. I can practically feel his judgment radiating through the space. The apartment was never much to look at, but now it looks like a crime scene where the victim was my self-respect.
"When's the last time you showered? Or ate actual food?" He moves through the living room, kicking bottles aside with his expensive shoes.
"What are you, my mother?"
"Your mother's dead, Dante. Has been for fifteen years. And if you keep this up, you'll be joining her sooner than planned."
The words sober me up faster than a bucket of ice water. "That's a shitty thing to say."
"It's a shitty truth." Vito settles into the chair across from my couch, somehow managing to look dignified even in this pit of despair I've created. "How long has it been since you checked in? Since you've done any actual work?"
I try to remember, but the last few days are a blur of alcohol and self-pity. "Marco's handling things."
"Marco's one man, not an entire crew. We're in the middle of a war, in case you've forgotten."
"I haven't forgotten." The words come out sharper than I intended. "But I'm not much good to anyone right now."
"No, you're not." His agreement stings more than an argument would have. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
I slump back onto the couch, my head still pounding. "I don't know. Wait for her to call, I guess. If she calls."
"And if she doesn't?"
The possibility I've been trying not to think about hangs between us like a loaded gun. "Then I guess I learn to live with it."
"Bullshit." Vito leans forward, his dark eyes boring into mine. "The Dante Mancini I know doesn't give up. Doesn't wallow in self-pity like some lovesick teenager. Where's the man who broke Kieran Costello's neck without hesitation?"
"That man was protecting someone he loved. This man is just... waiting."
"For what? Permission? Absolution? A guarantee that everything will work out the way you want it to?"
I don't answer, because he's right and we both know it.
"You know what your problem is, Dante? You've spent so long being what other people needed that you've forgotten how to fight for what you want." He stands, straightening his jacket. "Remember that day in the training center? When you were thirteen and couldn't land a punch on me?"
The memory hits like a freight train. Hours of frustration, the taste of failure, the burning need to prove myself. "Yeah."
"What did I tell you that day?"
"That someday I'd be strong enough, fast enough to land that punch." The words come automatically, burned into my memory.
"That's right." Vito moves to the center of the small living room, his stance shifting into something I recognize. Combat ready. "Today's that day."
I stare at him, certain the hangover is making me hallucinate. "What?"
"You heard me. Land one punch—anywhere on my body—and I'll tell you where Sofia is." He rolls up his sleeves with deliberate precision. "You've got one hour."
"You're out of your mind."
"Maybe. But I'm also the only person who knows where the woman you love is hiding. So the question is, how badly do you want to find her?"
The challenge hangs in the air between us, and despite my current state, I feel something stirring in my chest. The same fire that burned in me when I was thirteen, desperate to prove I was worth something.
But I'm also drunk, hungover, and haven't eaten a real meal in days. "I can barely stand up straight."
"Then you better figure out how to fight dirty." Vito's smile is sharp, predatory. "Clock's ticking."
I push myself off the couch, swaying slightly as the blood rushes to my head. My reflexes are shot, my coordination is for shit, and my head feels like it's full of cotton. But somewhere beneath all of that, the part of me that's been sleeping for three days starts to wake up.
I throw the first punch—a lazy, telegraphed jab that Vito slips easily.
"Pathetic," he says, echoing his words from years ago. "Is that really the best you can do? Because if it is, Sofia's going to be waiting a very long time."
The mention of her name adds fuel to the fire burning in my chest. I come at him again, this time with more purpose, but my timing is off and he deflects the combination effortlessly.
"You're fighting like a drunk," he observes, dancing away from another wild swing. "Sloppy, predictable, emotional. Where's the discipline I taught you?"
"Hard to be disciplined when you're seeing double," I grunt, trying to corner him against the wall.
"Then maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to pickle yourself in whiskey." He taps me lightly on the ribs as I stumble past him. "This is exactly what I'm talking about, Dante. The first sign of adversity and you fall apart."
"Adversity?" I spin around to face him, anger flaring hot and bright. "I didn't lose a fucking poker game, Vito. The woman I love left because she can't stand the thought of being part of this world. Our world."
"And instead of fighting for her, you decided to feel sorry for yourself."
"What was I supposed to do? Storm in there and drag her back? Force her to choose me?"
"You were supposed to trust her enough to make her own decision." Vito weaves through another series of punches, his movements fluid and controlled. "But you were also supposed to make sure that when she made that decision, she was choosing the best version of you, not this self-destructive mess."
The words hit harder than any physical blow could. Because he's right—I've been so focused on the possibility of losing Sofia that I've become exactly the kind of man she might not want to come back to.
"You think this is what she'd want to see?" Vito continues, staying just out of reach. "You think she'd be proud of what you've become these last few days?"
"Shut up," I snarl, throwing a combination that comes closer than any of my previous attempts.
"There it is," he says, and I can hear approval in his voice. "That's what I've been waiting for."
But even with my anger driving me, I can't bridge the gap between us.
He's still too fast, too experienced, and I'm still operating at about sixty percent capacity.
Every missed punch feels like another failure, another reminder that even fifteen years later, I'm still that angry kid who can't quite measure up.
"You know what your real problem is?" Vito says as I pause to catch my breath. "You're still fighting like you have something to prove to me. Like my approval is more important than your own happiness."
"Isn't it?"
"Not anymore." He stops moving, letting his guard drop slightly. "You're not that thirteen-year-old kid anymore, Dante. You don't need my permission to want things for yourself."
The change in his stance is subtle, but I notice it. The way his weight shifts, the slight opening in his defense. It's the same tell I've been studying for fifteen years, waiting for the right moment to exploit it.
"Sofia didn't leave because she can't handle this world," Vito continues. "She left because she needs to know she's choosing it, not just accepting it. There's a difference."
I feint left, and when he moves to counter, I pivot right and drive my fist into his ribs with everything I have left.
The impact sends shockwaves up my arm, and for a moment, we both just stand there, frozen. Vito straightens slowly, one hand pressed to his side, and I wait for the explosion of anger that's sure to follow.
Instead, he smiles.
"Took you long enough," he says, and there's genuine pride in his voice.
I stare at him, certain I'm hallucinating. "You're not pissed?"
"Why would I be pissed? You finally stopped fighting the opponent I wanted you to fight and started fighting the one you needed to fight."
"I don't understand."
"The thirteen-year-old Dante would have kept throwing the same punches, getting the same results, because he was too proud to change his approach.
The man you are now—the man Sofia fell in love with—was smart enough to adapt.
To use my own words against me, to wait for the right moment, to fight dirty when fighting clean wasn't working. "
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a cell phone, placing it on the coffee table between us.
"One number, one address," he says simply. "Everything you need to find her."
I grab at the phone, my hands shaking as I look at the screen. There's a contact labeled simply "Home" and a GPS coordinate that means nothing to me but feels like everything.
"Vito, I—"
"Don't thank me yet," he interrupts. "You still have to convince her to come back. And after the last three days, that might be harder than landing that punch was."
I'm already moving toward the door, grabbing my keys from the counter, my hangover forgotten in the rush of adrenaline and hope.
"Dante," Vito calls as I reach for the handle.
I turn back, expecting more advice or warnings about what I'm walking into.
Instead, he just nods once, the gesture carrying fifteen years of history between us.
"Go get her, son. And this time, remember that you're not just fighting for her love—you're fighting for the right to choose your own life."
I'm out the door and down the stairs before his words fully sink in, my feet carrying me toward whatever's waiting at those coordinates. But as I start the car and pull into traffic, I understand what he meant.
For the first time in my life, I'm not fighting for Vito's approval or the family's honor or even Sofia's love.
I'm fighting for the right to be happy.
And that makes all the difference.