Chapter 20
Dante
My wife finally spoke.
After days of silence, after waking up and not saying a damn word for weeks, she finally met my eyes and asked me to play for her.
And it broke a part of me I’d held together for so long.
Her voice…
I missed it more than I’ll ever be able to say. It was soft. Tenuous. But hers.
She doesn’t even realize what that meant to me. She may never understand.
I would’ve given her anything in that moment. Anything at all.
And then she asked to see the boy.
The Albanian.
The one who, last time, stood in the same room with her while I said things I regret with every cell in my body. I lost control. I lashed out. Said things I still hear echoing in my skull every night.
And then… I lost her.
Regret was a stranger to me. Until that day.
She walked out of that room and vanished. When I found her again, she was shattered and bloodied, barely recognizable.
So when she asked me today, I did everything in my power not to growl. Not to refuse.
But I can’t say no to her.
I never could.
That’s how I find myself here, walking beside her now, her hand in mine, as we make our way down the long corridor to the secured wing.
Her fingers are small in my palm, fine boned and light. But there’s strength in the way she grips me. Quiet determination. Something resolute, a flicker of the woman she was, before the world came crushing down.
Once we reach the door, the men stationed outside offer a silent nod and unlock it.
The room is far from a cell. It’s one of the guest suites, comfortable, orderly, and immaculately maintained. A bed with clean linens, a small television, a stack of books. Even the barred window has been concealed behind polished wood slats.
I could’ve had him tossed into the basement. Chained to a wall. Forgotten.
But I didn’t.
Whoever said I don’t have a fucking heart, look at me, being downright hospitable.
He lives better than most free men, but make no mistake, he isn’t free.
The boy is crouched on the bed, legs drawn in tightly, eyes fixed on a dubbed movie flickering across the screen, feigning interest or perhaps simply passing time.
As the door opens, his gaze lifts, calm, immediate, and the moment he sees my wife, his expression changes.
Not fear. Not caution.
Happiness.
It’s subtle, but unmistakable, an ease in his posture, a flicker of light in his eyes, the barest curve of his mouth. He looks genuinely pleased to see her.
And it grates on me.
I don’t trust him, and I don’t fucking like the way he seems to orbit her, like she’s the only point of gravity in his world.
I hate even more the way she keeps stepping into a protective stance for him, shielding him as if he’s earned something from her beyond pity.
My jaw tightens.
He also saved her life…
That thought slips in, uninvited and unwanted, but it’s the truth.
And if this is all an act, if the boy is playing us, then whoever trained him did a masterful job, because the only thing I see in his expression is sincerity.
And I know he’s asked about her before. Bianca told me, said he wouldn’t stop pestering the guards.
Where’s the woman with the beautiful eyes?
Is she safe?
Did she come back?
It unsettled me then. It unsettles me now.
Why the fuck is he so interested in my wife?
He’s a suspect. An enemy. A pawn from the wrong side of the chessboard.
I don’t buy into his wide eyed innocence, but my wife… she’s right. I need to do something. I can’t keep him here indefinitely.
He needs to be handled, released, extracted, or, if he ever lays a hand on my wife or son, buried. One way or another, he can’t stay under my roof forever. I’ll decide what to do with him soon.
Harlow steps forward, her gaze fixed on the boy. She doesn’t speak right away, just watches him. He rises slowly from the bed, unsure if he’s meant to sit or stand.
Then she says, barely above a whisper.
“Thank you.”
He frowns, confused.
“For what?”
A beat of silence passes before she speaks again.
“For saving my life.”
That hits me like a fucking brick. My brows draw together, and I nearly speak, but I don’t. I just watch. Because how the hell does she know that?
No one told her.
At least, I fucking didn’t.
But this house has been full for days now. Her family’s been in and out. Someone must’ve opened their damn mouth.
The boy shrugs.
“It’s nothing,”
he says.
“I’m just glad I could help.”
“Did your family send you here to spy on us?”
Harlow asks, catching me off guard with the sudden shift.
But credit where it’s due, he doesn’t flinch. If anything, there’s a flicker beneath the calm.
Not fear. Not guilt.
Hurt.
Though for what exactly, I can’t say.
“No,”
he answers, voice flat, almost defeated.
“And I don’t really like calling them my family. They—”
He stops himself, jaw tightening.
“You can tell us,”
Harlow says, her tone calm, but firm.
“Even if they made you spy, or forced you to do something, whatever it is, we can help you.”
He shakes his head.
“They didn’t. I’ve been planning to leave for a while now. But I knew I couldn’t just run. I needed a plan, something solid. If I slipped up, they’d find me. And the punishment…”
I see my wife recoil, the movement so small. My fists clench at my sides. No one should be able to get that reaction from her. Especially not with words.
“Even if we set you free,”
she murmurs, more to herself than to him.
“even with money, you’re still underage. They’ll find you. Or worse, you’ll end up dumped in foster care and still dragged back to them.”
Her eyes stay on him.
“Do you want to stay here?”
He nods, small, almost uncertain at first.
Then, like he forces himself to be braver, he nods again. Stronger this time. Committed.
I grit my jaw.
How fucking convenient.
There’s this quiet, tentative side to him, always hesitating, always soft spoken. But behind that, just barely masked, I catch glimpses of the real boy. Not the wide eyed victim. The one with spine. With edge. He doesn’t take bullshit, he just hides it well.
But why hide it?
Was he forced to smother it by the people who raised him? Or is it just part of the act?
Goddamn it, I keep circling back to the same question. Is he a fucking spy?
“I don’t want to go back to them,”
he says again, this time with more force in his voice.
Better. At least he doesn’t sound like a kicked dog anymore.
I study him the way I would a man across the barrel of a gun, every shift, every micro expression.
No sign of a lie. Not yet.
But I still don’t trust him.
Not around her.
Not around anything that matters.
Harlow turns to me. Her gaze locks with mine, and I see the unspoken words. She wants to help him. She hasn’t said why.
But I know my wife. She doesn’t give her trust easily. And she never protects without reason. It’s earned. Usually over time and through fire.
But still… for some reason she’s protective of this boy.
“Do you feel up for a party?”
she asks him.
He blinks, as though her words don’t make sense to him.
She waits patiently.
After a beat, he nods slowly, clearly unsure whether she’s joking or serious.
Harlow offers him a soft, restrained smile, then turns to me with a look I know all too well, one that says don’t argue with me, before walking out.
I watch her go, my eyes tracking every step, my hands itching to follow, to keep her within reach.
I feel a flicker of contentment rising in me. We’re making progress. But I know better than to let hope get ahead of me.
The doctor warned us, these moments come and go. She can seem fine one minute, and crash the next.
But she finally spoke.
And for now, that’s more than enough.
Seeing fragments of the woman she was before, the way she held her ground, insisted on seeing the boy, and, as always, managed to get exactly what she wanted, stirs a quiet sense of triumph in me. Piece by piece, she’s stepping back into herself. And I’ll take that, whatever form it comes in.
She’s the only person alive who could look me in the eye and ask for everything… and I wouldn’t even think twice.
I turn back toward the Albanian now that we’re alone, taking a step forward. He rises a little straighter, instinctively.
Brave kid. I’ll give him that. Still cautious around me, which is the only smart reaction.
“You know what happens if I find out you’re a spy?”
His eyes meet mine. “I do.”
“Then let’s start with the basics. What’s your name?”
He doesn’t falter. “Luka.”
“Full name.”
“Luka Kreshnikaj.”
I exhale slowly through my nose.
“That family name carries weight. Ugly weight. You were raised in that filth?”
He nods once.
“Did you run, or were you sent to gather intel?”
“I ran,”
he answers, voice tight. But I catch the tremor in it. There’s pain under the surface.
“How were you even there that day? Your family ambushed my territory, we were caught in open crossfire. That’s not the kind of place a teenager just ends up by accident.”
“I was with my… father,”
he says reluctantly.
I watch his face closely. Every expression matters.
“You know I killed him, right?”
He doesn’t flinch like I expect. Instead, he narrows his eyes slightly and says.
“Good. I owe you for that.”
My brow lifts.
“Didn’t get along with him, I take it?”
“He was a monster.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Yes,”
he says quietly.
“But there are different kinds. And his… his was the worst.”
I nod once, slowly.
“Look, I’m not above putting a bullet in your skull if you lie to me. If you harm my wife, or anyone under this roof, I won’t hesitate.”
He nods.
“Understood.”
“I’ll be watching. Closely. One misstep, and you’re gone.”
“Fair.”
I slide my hands into the pockets of my trousers.
“Your uncle’s next. He’s escalating, and I intend to put a stop to it. Permanently.”
Luka doesn’t avert his eyes.
“Then I’ll be free. I’ll leave your house, as you wish.”
“Good.”
I hold the silence for a moment longer before giving voice to the question that’s been circling in the back of my mind.
“Would you take over? Rule your people if the opportunity came?”
“No.”
He doesn’t even pause.
My brow lifts again. “Why not?”
“These are not people I want to rule,”
he says.
“They’re too far gone. It’s in their blood, violence, trafficking, corruption. Even if they fear me, they’d rebel eventually. They’re not capable of change. I don’t want to touch any of it.”
I hum in thought.
“Well, in that case… I might kill a few more than just your uncle. If they’re tangled up in that kind of rot.”
“You’d be doing the world a favour.”
The way he says it, unfiltered, has a sincerity that doesn’t sound rehearsed.
I still don’t trust him.
But I catch a glimpse of truth in his eyes, and I file it away for later. Because whether he realizes it or not, that boy just stepped into a storm.
And if this is all an act, if he touches my wife, or breathes wrong near her…
I will bury him so deep the world will forget he ever existed.
“I’ll have one of my men show you downstairs,”
I tell him coldly.
“Get dressed. Don’t be late. Four sharp.”
And with that, I step out, back to where I belong. With her.