25. The Perfect Solution
The Perfect Solution
Dante
The familiar sting of sweat and adrenaline clings to my skin as I circle my opponent in the ring. The gym is filled with the sharp sounds of bodies hitting bags, fists meeting flesh, and the low hum of voices in the background.
It smells like blood and effort, like men pushing past their limits. But my mind isn’t here.
It’s still back at the milonga.
Nichole in his arms. Moving like she belonged there. Letting him touch her. Letting him lead her.
I throw a jab, my knuckles cracking against my opponent’s chin. He stumbles back, blinking fast, but I don’t let up.
The image keeps replaying in my head—the way she leaned in close at their table, the way they whispered like they had secrets worth keeping, the way she looked at him like he was the only man in the room.
I land a clean hook against his ribs. He grunts, but I barely hear it over the roaring in my ears.
Her fingers in his hair. His hand on her back.
Her body against his.
My muscles coil, rage twisting through me like a live wire. I swing hard, my glove connecting with his temple in a sharp, brutal hit. His head snaps back, and he drops.
The gym goes quiet.
I stand over him, breathing hard, my fists still clenched. My thoughts press down like a weight on my chest, the fury simmering just beneath the surface, too much to contain.
“Boss—phone call.”
I exhale sharply, stepping over my fallen opponent without a second glance. One of my men stands just outside the ring, holding out a ringing phone.
I don’t bother taking off my gloves. Instead, I step out, rolling my shoulders, and nod at him to hold it up for me. He does, steady-handed as I lean forward.
“Talk.”
The voice on the other end is sharp, direct. One of my men.
“Just got a report on the girl.”
My jaw clenches. I say nothing, waiting.
“She pulled up to some rundown building. Looked abandoned. But LaCampanella was waiting for her.”
A slow, deadly pulse beats beneath my skin.
“They were inside for a couple hours. Then they left together. Drove to a secluded area, parked. Looked intimate. Very intimate.”
The words send a violent pulse of rage through my veins.
“And?” My voice is flat, steady, but I feel the storm building beneath it.
“They had sex,” the guy says, cutting straight to the point. “Drove back to her car. Parted ways. She’s back at the estate now.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and unforgiving.
“Alright,” I mutter.
The call clicks off.
And then—
“FUCK!”
The word rips from my throat as I swing, driving my fist straight into the gut of the guy holding the phone. He doubles over with a choked grunt, staggering back, but I barely acknowledge him. The rage is blinding, suffocating.
I don’t take off my gloves.
Instead, I turn toward the nearest punching bag and start pounding into it, again and again and again. The chain above creaks under the force, the bag lurching with every brutal hit.
I picture him.
Damian.
His smug fucking smirk. His hands on her. His mouth on her.
Another strike. Harder. Faster. The bag swings violently, jerking from the impact.
I knew Damian lost his tail the other day. I let it slide, but I had a backup plan. I had her tailed instead.
And now?
Now I know the truth.
It’s not just a game between them. It’s not casual.
It’s real.
And that means there’s only one way to end it.
I step back from the bag, rolling my shoulders, exhaling through my nose.
Nichole has to be eliminated.
And I may have just the perfect way to do it.
The punching bag swings lazily on its chain, the force of my last hit still echoing through the gym. My breathing is steady now, controlled, but the fire burning in my chest refuses to die down.
I step back, rolling out my shoulders, and exhale slowly through my nose. She has to go.
But it has to be clean. No mess. No loose ends.
One of my men approaches cautiously, knowing better than to speak too soon. He’s smart. Observant. I glance at him, already knowing why he’s here.
“What?” I snap.
He doesn’t flinch. “We need to talk about the girl.”
I wipe a bead of sweat from my temple, grabbing the bottle of water someone left on the bench nearby. “No shit.” I take a sip, rolling the bottle between my fingers. “The way I see it, there are two options.”
The guy crosses his arms, waiting.
“The obvious route,” I continue, “is to take her out the traditional way.” I say it casually, like we’re talking about fixing a business problem. Because that’s what this is. “Quiet. In and out. No witnesses.”
“But?” he prompts.
I smirk, tossing the water bottle onto the bench. “That’s too easy.”
He nods, already catching on. “You want something that sends a message.”
I lean back against the wall, rubbing the tape on my gloves together. “Something that leaves Damian knowing exactly who did it—but without a single fucking thread tying it back to us.”
A moment of silence passes, the gears in both our heads turning at the same time.
Then he says, “What if we don’t make it look like a hit at all?”
My lips curl slightly. “Go on.”
“She’s in the estate, right? Has access to all the food, all the drinks. What if she just…” He makes a small flicking motion with his fingers. “Slips away.”
A slow pulse of satisfaction beats through my chest.
Poison.
Subtle. Efficient. Nearly impossible to trace if done right.
I exhale through my nose, considering. “Has to be untraceable. No suspicion. No immediate reaction. It needs to hit later—hours after she’s ingested it. Enough time for people to think it was something else.”
He nods, his mind already working through the logistics. “Could be something she drinks. A little at a time. Something slow, progressive. By the time she starts feeling it, no one will think twice.”
I push off the wall, the plan settling into place in my head. It’s the perfect solution. No struggle. No mess. No fucking blood for Damian to chase after. Just a slow, inevitable death.
But it has to be the right moment.
“She’s not dumb,” I mutter. “We have to be careful.”
My guy nods. “She’s getting comfortable. That’s when people slip.”
I let out a
sharp, satisfied breath. He’s right.
She’s dancing, she’s sneaking around, she thinks she’s untouchable.
But she won’t see it coming.
I clench my jaw, flexing my fingers inside the gloves before finally pulling them off.
“We wait,” I decide. “Find the right moment. And when it comes—” I smirk, rolling out my wrists.
“We make sure she never sees it coming.”
A week has passed.
No late-night rendezvous. No secret meetings. No slipping off to hidden places with Damian fucking LaCampanella.
She barely leaves the estate.
All she does is stay inside, always on her damn phone.
At first, I thought it had to be him. I was ready to confirm that she was still tangled up with him, still being reckless. But then I got a glimpse of her screen. Valentina.
She’s been talking to that friend of hers non-stop. No calls. No meetups. Just texts that mean nothing.
I tighten my grip around the crystal glass in my hand, swirling the amber liquid inside. Maybe Damian already got what he wanted. Maybe he fucked her and discarded her. Maybe he realized she wasn’t worth the trouble.
That doesn’t change anything.
She still needs to go.
And tonight is the perfect time to make it happen.
The estate is hosting a small gathering—nothing extravagant, just close associates, trusted men, and a few business partners. Enough people to hide the act in plain sight.
The air is thick with conversation and laughter, the scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey mingling with the warm evening breeze. Nichole moves through the room effortlessly, wearing that same air of untouchable confidence.
She doesn’t know.
She has no fucking clue that every step she takes is leading her closer to the inevitable.
I sip my drink, watching as one of my men moves through the crowd, slipping toward the bar.
Tonight, we set the trap.
And by the time she realizes it?
It’ll be too late.
I watch from across the room, my grip tightening around my glass as Nichole smiles politely at the woman droning on beside her.
She’s one of the wives—a loud, overpainted thing with more jewelry than sense. Her voice cuts through the air like nails on glass, high-pitched and obnoxious, her words spilling out in an endless stream of gossip and self-importance.
Nichole looks bored, nodding at all the right moments but barely listening.
Good.
She won’t be paying attention when her drink arrives.
I shift my weight, my gaze flicking toward the bar. Right on time.
A waitress approaches them, balancing a sleek silver tray lined with two delicate glasses of wine. One of them already marked for death.
She steps between the two women, lowering the tray gracefully. “A complimentary drink, ladies?”
Nichole barely glances at it. She’s just about to respond when—
The wife reaches out and snatches a glass without hesitation.
The wrong glass.
She lifts it to her lips, tipping her head back, swallowing every last drop.
My pulse spikes.
No.
My jaw clenches, but I force myself to stay still, my expression unreadable as the woman sighs in satisfaction, smacking her lips. “Oh, how lovely! Just what I needed after such a long day.” She turns back to Nichole, launching into another tangent about something insignificant.
My fists tighten at my sides.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
The poison was meant to settle, to take time, to leave no trace. Now it’s in the wrong person, and all I can do is wait and hope that it won’t—
A sudden, sharp gasp.
The woman stiffens.
Nichole blinks, caught mid-sentence as the wife’s expression twists, her eyes going wide, frantic. She clutches at her throat, choking on a breath that doesn’t seem to come.
The conversation around them doesn’t stop immediately, but then—her body convulses.
Her arms jerk, her glass shattering to the floor as her throat tightens, strangled noises clawing their way out of her mouth.
Now people notice.
A man calls her name, stepping forward. “Lucia?”
She tries to answer, but her entire body seizes.