27. Dante
Chapter 27
Dante
T he days blur together. A cycle of motion without meaning.
Night after night, Rocco and I watch the Rubio mansion from a distance, tracking every flicker of movement behind its iron gates. We take shifts, swapping intel, waiting for something—anything—to happen. But the mansion remains eerily silent.
No signs of Lacruz. No whispers of Carmen.
It’s grunt work, really. Not that I’m surprised after that last meeting with Leon. My impassioned plea for Carmen’s life thankfully delayed my immediate plans of attack.
But it brought with it the whispers. The suspicious looks. The “what-do-you-think-you’re-playing-at” glares from across the room from men I’ve considered my allies for years.
Let them stare. Let them speculate.
Rocco is as loyal as ever, and Mia is quick to shoot down anyone who gets mouthy. But the cat is out of the bag now, whether I confirm it or not.
Everyone knows that at some point over the last five months, I crossed a line with Carmen Rubio.
My old Brooklyn routine has become muscle memory: checking in at the casino, reinforcing supply lines, and making sure our businesses are still standing despite the war. Check into a hotel and check out of it three days later. Rinse and repeat.
But it’s all just going through the motions. My head isn’t here. It’s trapped in that moment the gunshot went off.
By the end of the week, Teo pulls me to one side and admits his sources have come up empty. No one has seen or heard from Carmen since the warehouse. It’s as if she vanished.
The news has Mia kicking up a storm, forcing herself into war meetings, strategizing, and planning.
But in the quiet aftermath, she admits, instead of forcing me to acknowledge my own feelings, that she misses Carmen, that she worries about her old friend, worries what a man like Lacruz might do to her.
No news is bad news.
And we both suffer it together.
I keep replaying the moment in the warehouse—the way Carmen gasped when she saw Mia, the way her body jerked when the bullet hit her, the way she disappeared into the hands of the Cartel while I stood there, completely useless.
Most nights, I just stand outside, smoking a cigarette I don’t even want, staring down the Brooklyn streets like they hold an answer.
Another fruitless night of gruntwork. No movement at the Rubio mansion. No contact. No leads.
The neon glow of Brooklyn fades into the soft blue of dawn as Rocco and I make our way through the quiet streets.
I rub a hand over my face, the stubble on my jaw rough beneath my fingertips. I need a shave. But everything feels too exhausting.
“Coffee,” I mutter, already changing course.
Rocco doesn’t argue. He just follows.
Looking at the man beside me, I’m once again reminded that he’s been doing this for months longer than I have. How he’s still on his feet, I have no idea.
I push open the door to the cafe, and for a second, the summer slams into me like a punch to the ribs.
Caffè di Monteluna has always felt like a little slice of Montecroce. The same dark wood counters, the same warm scent of espresso and burnt sugar, the same clinking of ceramic cups against saucers.
I can almost hear Carmen’s laugh, can almost feel the brush of her hand against mine. I almost think I can turn to find her beside me, rolling her eyes, teasing me about my overly serious coffee order.
But when I do turn, it’s just Rocco, running a hand through his messy hair as he steps up to the counter. The barista greets him, and he orders for us, unconcerned with the memories that threaten to drown me.
I swallow hard and force myself to focus.
Carmen isn’t here.
With a shake of my head, I lead us to a table in the corner and collapse into the seat. The coffee Rocco hands me is strong, bitter, and exactly what I need to stumble home after this without collapsing from sheer exhaustion.
Across from me, Rocco stirs in an unnecessary amount of sugar, watching me over the rim of his cup.
The silence between us is heavy, punctuated only by the hum of the espresso machine and the quiet murmur of other early risers.
“You good, man?” Rocco finally asks, leaning back in his chair.
I grunt noncommittally, taking another sip.
“Yeah, see, that’s not convincing,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been off ever since you got back. And don’t even try to tell me it’s just the war. We’ve been friends long enough for you to spare me the bullshit.”
I stay quiet, hoping he’ll drop it. He doesn’t.
“It’s about Carmen, isn’t it?”
Her name is a gunshot to my system. I exhale through my nose, jaw tightening.
“You spent months with her, Dante. You think no one noticed when you reacted like that the other day? I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was…it changed you.”
I set my cup down carefully, staring at the dark liquid inside. “We should go.”
“I’m just saying, if you need to talk about it?—”
“There’s nothing left to talk about,” I intend the words to come out scathing, but I’m too tired for them to carry any weight. “What’s done is done.”
Rocco watches me for another second before sighing, letting it go. We finish off the coffee and stand in silence, both eager to get home and sleep before Leon inevitably sends us out again.
Only, as we step outside, something shifts in the corner of my vision. A dull alarm bell begins to whirl within me.
It’s subtle at first—just a prickle at the back of my neck, an itch in my instincts honed from years in this life.
The street is quiet, but not empty. People come and go, lost in their own routines. But there, on the opposite sidewalk, a woman hesitates too long before falling into step behind us.
She’s careful, but not careful enough.
I don’t acknowledge her. Instead, I keep walking, leading Rocco around the corner into a narrow alley between two brick buildings. The second I’m out of sight, I spin, pressing my back to the wall, waiting.
It’s a testament to our friendship—or shared sleep depravity—that Rocco goes along with it without uttering a word.
Sure enough, footsteps follow.
The moment she turns into the alley, I grab her, twisting her wrist and shoving her up against the wall.
She lets out a frightened yelp.
“Who are you?” I demand, voice low and dangerous. “Why are you following me?”
The woman trembles beneath my grip, her dark eyes wide with fear. I ease my hold slightly, just enough to let her breathe but not enough for her to run.
“I’m not your enemy,” she rushes out, her voice thick with her Mexican accent. “Please—I need to speak with you. You’re Dante Grasso, right?”
“Who are you?” I demand again.
She swallows, gathering her nerve. “My name is Melissa Alvarado. I’ve been employed by the Rubios for more than twenty years.”
Rocco is at my side in an instant, cold and threatening. “You’re on the wrong side of town to be declaring your allegiance to the Cartel.”
“Please! I’m a doctor. Please, Senor Grasso. I’ve known Carmen since she was a child. I was there when she was born, when she took her first steps?—”
I tense.
“What did you just say?”
“I’m Carmen’s doctor. Her family doctor,” the woman—Melissa—cries out.
I try to squash the kernel of hope that threatens to explode from my chest. “Prove it.”
“Carmen has a birthmark,” she answers quickly. “A small one, shaped like a crescent moon. Just beneath her?—”
“Her left shoulder blade,” I finish before I can stop myself.
Behind me, Rocco lets out a sharp snort. “Damn. And how would you know a thing like that, Dante?”
I ignore him, my pulse hammering.
Dr. Alvarado stares up at me, her expression shifting from fear to quiet pleading. “She’s in danger, Senor Grasso. She sent me to find you.”
The world narrows to those words.
Carmen sent her.
My grip slackens, my breath catching in my throat. I don’t even realize I’ve let go of her entirely until she straightens, rubbing her wrists.
“Why?” My voice is hoarse, barely controlled.
Dr. Alvarado’s eyes dart to Rocco before settling back on me. “Do you trust this man?”
I glance at Rocco, who raises his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you’re the one getting cryptic messages from imprisoned princesses. But if this is a setup, don’t expect me to bail your ass out.”
I turn back to Melissa and nod once.
The doctor stares at me for one long moment, hesitation spreading across every inch of her face.
And then.
Then.
“Carmen is pregnant.”
For a moment, the world tilts on its axis.
I hear the words. I understand them. But my mind refuses to process them.
Carmen is pregnant.
With my child.
A sharp, painful breath drags through my chest as I stare at Dr. Alvarado, waiting for her to take it back, waiting for her to tell me this is some sick game, another move on the board of this godforsaken war.
But her face is solemn, dark eyes filled with the kind of urgency that leaves no room for lies.
“She’s carrying your baby, Senor Grasso,” she repeats softly, “and if she does not get rid of it, Hernando Lacruz will kill her.”
The words are a death knell ringing in my ears.
The war, the Cartel, even my loyalty to the Prince’s Guild, disintegrates into nothing.
The only thing that matters now is Carmen.
And I’m not going to let them touch her.
I don’t realize my hands have curled into fists until Rocco steps closer, his voice cutting through the roaring in my head.
“That’s a hell of a claim,” he says, eyes narrowed at Melissa. “Why should we believe you? For all we know, you could be setting us up.”
Melissa stands her ground, lifting her chin.
“I have known Carmen since she was born,” she says, steel in her voice now. “I have watched her grow, watched her struggle beneath her father’s expectations. She is a good girl, a brave girl. My conscience will not let me stand by and do nothing.”
Her eyes flick between us, desperate, determined.
“Telling you this could get me killed. Amos does not want anyone else to know.”
“Who else knows about this?” I ask.
Melissa sighs, “Officially? I am not sure. But there were rumors before Carmen returned. Rumors that she had become engaged to a man in Emilia-Romagna.”
“Emilia-Romagna?” Rocco bursts out in surprise.
“In Italy, yes,” Melissa nods. “It is why Lacruz left Cancún so early.”
“But—” Rocco gives me a pointed look.
But I’m just as surprised. “I never?—”
Then it hits.
It hits like a freight train.
There’s only one person who could have made that assumption. Only one person with connections this side of the Pacific to leak information like that, knowingly or not.
Rina Roma had fucked us over.
Rina Roma was the reason Amos Rubio had finally requested the return of his daughter, to see if the rumors were true, to try and keep the peace with his scorned ally, to prove to Lacruz that they had no merit.
Except, the truth is worse.
Carmen isn’t engaged.
She’s pregnant.
I exhale slowly, trying to pull myself together, trying to think through the storm raging inside me.
There’s only one thing I need to know.
I turn to Rocco, my closest friend. My voice is hoarse when I ask, “Are you with me?”
Rocco exhales through his nose, shaking his head like I’ve just asked him to rob a Vatican bank. “This is the stupidest idea in the world.”
I hold his gaze, my heart pounding.
Then he lets out a resigned sigh and claps a hand on my shoulder. “But you already knew that. And I already knew I’d follow you to the end.”
The tension in my chest eases—just a little.
I turn back to Melissa. “Then tell me everything you know.”