Chapter 41
DANTE
Rocco Demente’s castle clung to the southern face of the Dolomites like it had been carved straight out of the mountain and dared gravity to argue.
From here, the fortress was a wall of black stone rising up out of the pines, windows little more than slits of amber light watching the valley below.
Snow dusted every ledge and the twisting ribbon of a road, turning the world into a pale, ghostly landscape.
Far away, mortal village lights flickered like dying candles—tiny, fragile, and irrelevant.
“This is excessive,” I muttered as the iron gates began to grind open. “Even Rocco can’t be this paranoid.”
Emberline’s breath hung in a pale cloud beside me. “You mean living in a virtual fortress five hundred miles from the city? I can’t believe you’d call that paranoid. He’d say he’s here for the mountain air.”
We’d materialized to these coordinates a moment ago, the freezing cold a shock after the baking heat of the city.
Snow fell in lazy spirals, dusting my wife’s dark hair and velvet wrap.
She tugged the fabric tighter around herself, chin lifting in that defiant way, glaring up at me with that determined set to her jaw.
Emberline was a princess worthy of a fairytale, too fucking good for the likes of me, and all I wanted to do was kiss her, when I really should be thinking about how to use her.
I needed to get my fucking shit together.
And that glare… she was pissed about something. Standoffish. Nothing I could put my finger on, but I would give anything to know what she was thinking right now.
If I really wanted to play the bastard, I’d push past her mental shields and see why she was angry… but I wasn’t sure I could, since my wife had a mental shield stronger than a fucking bank vault.
Her gorgeous, thick curls fell halfway down her back, revealing the curve of a pale shoulder every time she adjusted her wrap. Those liquid-dark eyes seemed to see everything, including me, right down to my very last flaw.
Unlike me, Emberline was perfect. Delectable. A fucking wet dream fantasy that haunted me from the time I closed my eyes to when I stroked myself in the shower every morning, hissing out her name as I came all over the marble walls.
I really had to get my shit together.
Emberline was not my wife.
This marriage was as fake as my father’s humility. And tonight, walking into the lion’s den, she was my secret weapon to gain a foothold in society and nothing more.
I tucked my hand under her elbow, just as magic rolled out from the castle in a thick, invisible tide, carving up my skin, sinking into my bones. Demente magic always felt… invasive. Cruel. Like fingers dragging through your thoughts, rifling your memories, scraping along the inside of your skull.
Not quite pain.
Just the promise of suffering.
I gritted my teeth and let the slithering sensation pass through me, shoving my mind into the most boring place I could find.
You’re standing in the snow. You’re cold. You’re thinking about… ledgers, and— Fuck, I’m definitely not thinking about whether or not my wife is wearing panties.
“Rocco collects secrets the way my uncle does,” Emberline had cautioned before we left, her tone ice cold. “If you don’t want him to know something, don’t think too loudly.”
“So, what you’re saying,” I’d taunted, “is that I shouldn’t think about whether or not you’re wearing anything under that dress?”
She’d blushed a pretty pink, narrowing her dark eyes as if she wanted to punch me in the throat. “It’s none of your business what I’m wearing. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“I suppose I have my answer then.” I’d chuckled. “Gives me something to fantasize about when Rocco starts droning on about Dynasty business.”
“Stop talking,” she’d hissed, voice strangled to a whisper.
I’d thrown my head back and roared.
Now, walking up to a castle full of enemies with a head full of secrets I couldn’t risk Rocco knowing, I should have taken Ember’s warning seriously.
Demente guards flanked the doors—big, burly males in heavy black coats, holstered guns, knives visible because subtlety was for amateurs. Overhead, a line of gargoyles crouched along the roofline, their stone eyes glinting faintly red. Magic. Or cameras.
Or both.
I offered Emberline my arm—the gesture had become automatic between us—and she slid her hand through the crook of my elbow, some of the tension bleeding out of my shoulders as her warm fingers pressed against my sleeve.
We climbed the steps together.
Rocco waited at the top, flanked by Bruno and another burly, smashed-faced soldier I didn’t recognize. Demente was all easy charm tonight—silvered hair artfully disheveled, leaning on his cane, suit just slightly less formal than protocol demanded, as if to remind us we were playing by his rules.
“Emberline.” He kissed the air near my wife’s cheek, his hand lingering a fraction too long on her waist, and jealousy flared, hot and sudden. “How you brighten up my dreary little castle.”
“The snow is beautiful,” she demurred, “and your fortress just needs bigger windows, then you could see the mountains, and it wouldn’t be dreary at all.”
“I will take that under advisement,” he murmured, but his gaze was already on me, his one good eye gleaming, amusement sharpening to something else. “There he is, the Dynasty’s favorite black sheep. Or should I say wolf? Lord Dante, welcome to my mountain.”
“Rocco.” I inclined my head, letting my laziest smile curve my mouth. “Thank you for inviting us tonight. We are honored.”
“Invite?” he laughed. “As if I’d miss the chance to parade you both in front of the others. The whole Dynasty is salivating to see whether you two have torn each other apart yet.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Emberline’s tone was cool. “We’re still very much alive.”
“The night is still young,” he sing-songed, then clapped his hands. “Come, come. Let us get on with the evening. We have traditions to observe; you know how these people are.”
The way he said traditions made the back of my neck prickle, and that was before two servants stepped forward. One stopped at my side. The other moved to Emberline’s, and I remembered what happened at Emilia’s island.
“We will stay together this evening,” I told him, my fingers tightening around her arm. Here in Demente territory, I wasn’t about to let my wife out of my sight for a second.
“Ah, but that would ruin my fun.” Rocco’s fangs glinted. “Men to the war room for serious talk, women to the ballroom for gossip and drinks. Old superstition. You understand.”
“Rocco…” I warned in a low voice, temper pricking.
Emberline’s hand squeezed my arm, cutting me off. “I’ll be fine,” she patted my hand. “You go ahead, do your manly things.”
Her eyes met mine, the message as clear as if she spoke straight into my head. This is the plan, Dante. Play along, see what he wants.
I fucking hated every minute of this, but she was right. Emberline was more adept at navigating these minefields than I was. If anything, I should be following her lead, except… letting her out of my sight felt like a betrayal of some sort.
Her hand slid off my arm, every instinct wanting to drag her away from this awful place and these dangerous creatures, take her home, where she’d be safe.
“Try not to stab anyone before dessert,” she instructed, her cool smile warning me to behave.
Rocco chuckled. “I’ll take excellent care of your husband, Emberline. I promise not to lose him in the catacombs.”
“Honestly,” she shot back, as the servant slid her wrap off her shoulders, “I’m more worried about you, Rocco. Do watch your back down there.”
I caught one last glimpse of the creamy expanse of my wife’s bare shoulders, the drape of sapphires around the base of her slender throat, before a chuckling Rocco led me down a side hall lit by iron sconces, the air thick with limestone and magic and old blood.
The war room was exactly what I expected—too much and not enough at the same time.
High ceilings, thick, exposed beams, old maps of the city and the lagoon carved into the massive table for show.
Weapons were mounted decoratively—ancient swords, axes, guns polished to a shine—because nothing says welcome like the constant reminder that someone could kill you with ten different objects within arm’s reach.
And… fucking hell.
Marcello stood at one end of the table, hands braced on the edge, waiting.
Severin Draconi leaned against a stone pillar nearby, bald head gleaming, deceptively relaxed.
Luca occupied the opposite end of the table, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, draped in DiRavello blue, cold disdain, and a surly glare.
Emilia DiSangue was there as well, a glass of red wine in her hand that matched her dress.
Rocco walked in behind me, cane tapping on the stone. Bruno took up a post near the door.
I stood with my back to the flaming fireplace, the heat licking my body, and darkness stirred at my center.
“Now that the entertainment has arrived,” Rocco sounded delighted, “we shall begin.”
Marcello’s dark gaze sliced across the room and landed on me like a blade. “You’re late,” he accused. “I hope this is not a sign of what’s to come once you steal away my title.” He looked paler than usual, but it could have been the lighting.
Behind our sire, Gabriel’s lips pinched tight, hands clasped behind his back.
“I didn’t realize tonight’s party had such a tight schedule.” I checked my nonexistent watch. “Perhaps you’re simply early… Father.”
Severin’s mouth twitched. Luca didn’t bother hiding his wide-eyed smirk.
Marcello’s jaw barely moved. “We’re here to discuss a real problem affecting the Dynasty, not your poor sense of timing.”
“Fortunately, we can do both.” I gave my father a grin sure to send him over the edge. “I’m talented that way.”
Rocco tapped his cane against the map. “Our mutual problem is named Volkov.”
Okay, so the map wasn’t just for show.