Chapter 19
VIKTOR
By the time I make it to the penthouse, the sun is starting to dip low over Manhattan.
The city glows beyond the windows in streaks of gold and gray while rain from earlier still clings to the glass.
The elevator ride up is silent except for the dried blood cracking against my sleeves every time I move my arms.
The second I open the door, I see Dante sitting at the kitchen island with a whiskey glass in his hand.
The sleeves of his black button-up are rolled to his forearms, exposing fresh bruises across his knuckles while his suit jacket hangs over one of the stools nearby.
He glances up the second I walk in.
Neither of us speak immediately.
The only sound in the penthouse is the faint hum of the city outside and the ice shifting quietly in his glass.
“You look like shit,” I mutter finally.
Dante scoffs faintly before taking another drink. “Good to see you too.”
I toss my keys onto the counter before heading straight for the liquor cabinet, grabbing another glass from inside. I walk back over toward the island and take the seat beside Dante, pouring myself a drink too.
Dante stays quiet for a few minutes while we drink in silence, but eventually, he turns slightly toward me.
“Leigh?” he asks.
I stare at him for a second before laughing quietly under my breath. “You know, for somebody who said they didn’t care about my sister, you sure do ask about her a lot.”
His jaw tightens.
“She alright?” he asks again, colder this time.
I take another swallow of whiskey before answering honestly. “No.”
His fingers tighten slightly around the glass.
“She’s getting worse?” he asks.
“Rapidly.”
Silence sits heavy between us after that.
Honestly, I’m getting fucking tired of both of them.
Dante stares down into the amber liquid in his glass for a second before muttering quietly, “She hates me.”
I let out a dry laugh immediately. “I doubt that.”
His eyes shift back towards me.
“What?”
“She doesn’t hate you, Dante.” I shake my head slowly.
Something dark moves across his face for half a second before disappearing again.
He leans back slightly against the stool.
“You talked to her about me?” he asks carefully.
“Unfortunately.”
“And?” He asks.
I laugh again, but there’s nothing funny in it this time. “And I think you accidentally turned my sister into our father.”
Dante goes completely still.
His eyes lower toward the marble counter beneath his hands.
“She was never supposed to..” He breathes out. “I didn’t mean what I said.” he mutters quietly.
I scoff under my breath. “It’s a little fucking late for that.”
Dante finally drains the rest of the whiskey in his glass before speaking. “What exactly did she say?”
I stare at him blankly for a second. “You really wanna know?”
His eyes meet mine. “Yeah.”
I hesitate.
Not because I’m protecting him.
Because I already know this conversation’s gonna fuck him up.
I lean forward slightly against the island. “She said you hollowed her out.”
The room goes dead quiet after that.
Dante doesn’t move for a few seconds.
He just stares down at his hands like maybe if he avoids looking at me, the conversation will somehow disappear on its own.
But Everleigh meant every fucking word.
I watch his jaw tighten slowly before he drags a hand over his face.
“Fuck,” he mutters quietly.
“Yeah.” I take another drink of the whiskey. “That was pretty much my reaction too.”
Dante leans back against the stool slightly, but something about him looks off now. Less put together.
He pours another glass of whiskey.
The sun’s golden light stretches across the marble counters and floors from the windows, but it doesn’t make the place feel warmer.
Nothing about this place has felt warm since Mom died.
“You know what the worst part is?” I ask finally.
Dante looks over at me tiredly. “What?”
“She still fucking loves you.”
Those words seem to pack a punch.
I physically watch the air leave his lungs.
His expression tightens instantly before he looks away from me again, gripping the whiskey glass harder in his hand.
“That’s not true.”
I scoff immediately. “Dude, my sister spent the last year turning herself into a damn weapon because you hurt her feelings. Her feelings.”
“That’s not-”
“She’s torturing people.”
That shuts him up immediately.
“She’s nineteen,” I continue. “Nineteen-years-old and smashing people’s kneecaps in with hammers because she’s angry enough at the world that it doesn’t bother her anymore.”
His body tenses.
“I tried to keep her from all of this.” he mutters quietly.
I scoff under my breath. “Nobody born into this family avoids becoming part of it.”
“She could’ve.” He responds.
“No,” I correct flatly. “You just wanted her to.”
The ice in Dante’s glass shifts quietly while traffic hums faintly outside somewhere below the penthouse.
Then, because apparently he enjoys pissing me off tonight, he mutters: “She’s better off hating me.”
I stare at him for a second before laughing sharply. “You are genuinely so fucking stupid sometimes.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I lean back further in the stool, whiskey burning down my throat while irritation crawls higher and higher up my spine.
“You know what she stopped doing after you said that shit?”
Dante stays quiet.
“She stopped reading.”
That gets his attention immediately.
“She sold her book collection. Told me it was a distraction.” I shake my head slowly. “Marco out of all fucking people says that she’s losing her shit. Mira says she barely fucking eats unless our father forces her to sit down for dinner.”
Something dark shifts across Dante’s face.
I can feel the guilt radiating off of him.
“But yeah,” I mutter bitterly. “Fantastic job protecting her.”
Dante exhales slowly as he takes another drink, his bruised knuckles flexing around it.
“You think I don’t know I fucked up?” he asks quietly.
“I think you have no idea how badly.”