18. Chapter 18 Dante

Chapter 18 Dante

T he scent of linseed oil and turpentine hangs heavy in the air, clinging to the back of my throat like bitter regret. Everywhere I turn in this godforsaken mansion, I'm haunted by my own face staring back at me. But not my true face, never that. No, the man gazing out from the dozens of canvases scattered around Natalie's studio is a stranger—features blurred and distorted, as if viewed through a veil of tears.

It sets my teeth on edge, a muscle ticking in my jaw as a potent cocktail of frustration and dark fascination seethes in my veins. Is this how she sees me? A shadowy figure, more nightmare than man? Or is it all part of her game, another tactic to keep me at arm's length even as she surrenders her body to my darkest desires?

Damn her. Damn her and the twisted spell she's woven around my blackened heart. I should be reveling in my victory, savoring her submission like the rarest of vintages. But instead, I'm haunted by doubt, by the insidious certainty that her obedience is nothing more than a calculated facade. A means to an end I can't see, let alone control.

It's enough to drive a man to madness—or to violence.

The temptation to storm into her studio and demand answers is a living thing, clawing at my guts with talons of obsessive need. But I resist, clenching my fists until my nails bite into my palms. I won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me unravel. Not yet.

Instead, I summon Alonzo with a terse jerk of my chin. My ever-faithful shadow materializes at my side, his expression carefully blank. But I see the flicker of something in his eyes, a glimmer of unease that sets my already frayed nerves on edge.

"Is everything prepared?" I ask, my voice deceptively soft.

He nods curtly. "Yes, boss. Just like you asked."

I study him for a long moment, looking for any hint of deception, of divided loyalties. He meets my gaze steadily, but there's a tension in his broad shoulders, a wariness that wasn't there before. Before her.

"You would tell me if our little bird was up to something, wouldn't you, Alonzo?" The question is a silken threat, laced with the promise of retribution. "If she was weaving her webs, ensnaring the help in her schemes?"

Alonzo swallows hard, a vein pulsing in his thick neck. "Of course, boss. I'm loyal to you, always have been, always will be."

I let the silence stretch between us, heavy with unspoken menace. Then I smile, a slow, cruel curve of the lips. "Glad to hear it, old friend. Now, let's go play Santa Claus, shall we?"

As I make my way to Natalie's room, a strange sensation unfurls beneath my breastbone. It takes me a moment to recognize it for what it is—a sickening alchemy of nervousness and anticipation. Christ, what has this woman done to me?

She's curled up on the window seat when I enter, a book lying forgotten in her lap as she stares out at the frost-limned gardens below. The fading winter light paints her in shades of silver and shadow, a study in pensive beauty that makes my blackened soul ache.

"Natalie."

She stiffens at the sound of my voice, a minute tensing of slender shoulders before she turns to face me. Her expression is carefully composed, a mask of demure obedience that might fool a lesser man. But I see the wariness in her eyes, the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.

"Dante," she murmurs, rising with a rustle of silk.

I drink her in, this elusive creature who haunts my every waking thought. She's dressed simply today, in a clinging sheath of emerald green that brings out the gold in her eyes. No jewels adorn her slender throat or wrists, no heavy gems weigh down her elegant hands. She's a vision of understated grace, a far cry from the paint-splattered hellion I first dragged into my world.

"I have a surprise for you," I say, reaching for her.

She hesitates for the space of a heartbeat before placing her hand in mine, her skin cool and soft against my calloused palm. I suppress a shiver at her touch, at the way her proximity sets my blood to simmering. Damn her. Damn her to the deepest circle of hell.

"A surprise?" There's a note of trepidation in her voice, barely detectable beneath the practiced veneer of pleasant interest. "What kind of surprise?"

I flash her a wolfish grin, tugging her closer until the heat of her body seeps into mine. "The kind that will make you very, very happy. If you're a good girl, that is."

Something flares in her eyes at that, a spark of defiance quickly smothered. It sends a dark thrill through me, a savage satisfaction. She's still in there, my fierce little raven. Still fighting, still resisting, even as she plays the part of the dutiful pet.

Good. I'd be bored to tears if I'd truly broken her. It's the dance that thrills me, the endless push and pull of our twisted tango. Her submission is so much sweeter when it's laced with forbidden thorns.

"Come," I command, lacing our fingers together. "Your gift awaits."

I lead her through the twisting corridors of Shadowcrest, the silence between us heavy with unspoken tension. Alonzo trails in our wake, a hulking shadow I can feel boring into my back. Watching. Assessing. The prickle between my shoulder blades grows with each step, an annoying itch I can't scratch.

By the time we reach the east wing salon, my nerves are strung tighter than a garrote. I pause before the ornate doors, turning to face my wayward queen.

"Close your eyes," I order softly.

She blinks up at me, a frown marring her brow. "Why?"

"Because I said so." I lift my free hand, tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbone with my thumb. "Now, be a good girl and do as you're told."

Her lashes flutter shut, a small shudder rippling through her as she leans into my touch. I drink in the sight of her, committing every detail to memory—the dark fan of her lashes against her cheeks, the petal softness of her skin, the way her lips part ever so slightly, as if begging for my kiss.

Mine. My dark madonna, my twisted muse. The only crack in my obsidian armor.

With a bleak smile, I nod to Alonzo. He pushes open the doors, and a cacophony of yips and yaps fills the air. Natalie's eyes fly open, widening in shock as she takes in the scene before her.

The salon has been transformed into a makeshift puppy playpen, its priceless antiques and plush carpets covered in a riot of squeaky toys and piddle pads. And in the midst of it all, gamboling on clumsy paws, is a squirming mass of pitbull puppies, their eyes bright and tails wagging furiously.

"Dante, what—" Natalie's voice catches, an undercurrent of wonder threading through her confusion. "What is all this?"

I shrug, feigning nonchalance even as I watch her face hungrily, searching for any hint of genuine emotion. "I thought you could use some company. A loyal companion to keep you occupied while I attend to business."

Her eyes meet mine, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions swirling in their amber depths. Surprise, certainly. Wariness, as always. But beneath it all, the faintest flicker of... warmth. Gratitude, even.

"They're adorable," she breathes, dropping to her knees amidst the wriggling mass of fur. "But Dante, a puppy... they're so much work. Are you sure—"

"I'm sure," I cut her off, crouching down beside her. "I want you to have this, Natalie. A piece of innocence in this dark world of ours."

She looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a moment I swear she sees straight through to the blackened core of my being. "Thank you," she whispers, and there's a raw honesty in her voice that takes my breath away.

I watch as she scoops up a tiny brindle pup, cradling it to her chest with infinite tenderness. The little beast yawns widely, pink tongue unfurling, before snuggling into her embrace with a contented sigh.

Something clenches in my chest at the sight, a fist squeezing my heart with brutal force. Is this what it would be like, to see her hold a child—our child—with such loving care? The thought is a lance through my gut, as agonizing as it is intoxicating.

"Boss." Alonzo's gruff voice shatters the moment, dragging me back to the cold reality of our twisted world. "It's time."

I rise slowly, brushing invisible lint from my cuffs. "So it is." I glance down at Natalie, still cooing over her new charge. "I have some business to attend to, sweet. An old acquaintance I need to remind of his place."

She looks up at me, brows drawing together in a faint frown. "Business? What kind of business?"

The corner of my mouth kicks up in a sardonic half-smile. "The kind best left unspoken, solnyshko. Plausible deniability and all that."

Her fingers tighten reflexively around the puppy, a shadow dimming the light in her eyes. "I see."

"Alonzo will keep you company," I continue, as if she hadn't spoken. "And Alessandro will be right outside should you need anything." I give her a pointed look. "And I do mean anything, Natalie. Understood?"

A muscle tics in her jaw, but she nods. "Understood."

"Good girl." I reach out, chucking her under the chin. "I'll be back before you know it."

With that, I turn on my heel and stride from the room, Alonzo falling into step beside me. I can feel Natalie's gaze boring into my back, a silent question mark that lingers long after the salon doors swing shut behind us.

The ride to the warehouse district is a blur of rain-slicked streets and bleak, shuttered buildings. My mind is a labyrinth of dark musings, each more treacherous than the last. The seeds of doubt Natalie has sown fester like cankers, eating away at the bedrock of my control.

Is her submission genuine, or merely another mask, another stratagem in the endless chess match of our wills? The memory of her face as she cradled that pup, the softness that transformed her features... could it all be an act, a honey trap to lull me into complacency?

By the time we pull up to the ramshackle warehouse on Pier 39, my thoughts are a snarled tangle of barbed wire and broken glass. I shake my head, as if I could dislodge the insidious whispers through sheer force of will. Now is not the time for weakness, for the festering rot of uncertainty.

Now is the time to remind the world who wields the power in this cesspit of a city.

I step out into the frigid drizzle, the cold air a slap against my face. Alonzo and a quartet of my most trusted soldiers flank me, their presence a comforting weight at my back as we approach the rusted metal doors.

Marco is waiting for us just inside, a hulking slab of a man with a prizefighter's face and a gaze like chips of flint. He inclines his head in a show of respect, but I don't miss the way his eyes flick over my shoulder, scanning the shadows for any hint of threat.

"Boss," he greets me, his voice a low rasp. "The shipment is here, all accounted for. But..."

I raise an eyebrow. "But?"

Marco glances around, as if the very walls might be listening. "There's a problem. With the Corsini end of things."

A tendril of cold fury unfurls in my gut, sharp and bitter as poison. "What kind of problem?"

"The kind that ends with Luca Corsini skimming off the top." Marco's lip curls in disgust. "The arrogant bastard thinks he can play us for fools. That he can line his pockets with our profits and we'll be none the wiser."

I go very still, a cobra poised to strike. "Does he now?"

The words emerge soft and smooth, belying the murderous rage simmering beneath my skin. Luca Corsini. The golden scion of the Corsini empire, with his matinee idol looks and sense of entitlement wider than the Hudson. The same preening fop who thought he could make a play for my woman, use her as a pawn in his pathetic bid for power.

Oh, he'll pay for his hubris. With blood and bone and the dying screams of everything he holds dear. No one crosses Dante Corleone and lives to tell the tale.

"Show me," I command, my voice a lash of icy venom.

Marco leads us deeper into the warehouse, past towering stacks of crates and hulking machinery. The air is thick with the stench of motor oil and stale cigarette smoke, underlaid with a whiff of something sharper. Cordite, or the ferric tang of drying blood.

We reach a small, dingy office tucked away in the farthest corner, little more than a glorified closet. Marco fishes a key from his pocket and unlocks the door with a rusty screech of hinges.

Inside, bathed in the sickly glow of a flickering fluorescent light, is a man. No, not a man—the pathetic shell of one, trussed to a chair like a Christmas goose. His head lolls on his chest, greasy strands of hair obscuring his battered face.

"This is Sal," Marco says, his voice flat with disdain. "One of Corsini's inner circle. We caught the rat bastard skimming product down by the docks."

I step closer, the reek of terror and piss hitting me like a physical blow. Sal raises his head as I approach, his eyes glassy and unfocused. One socket is a swollen mess of purples and reds, the flesh puffed and distended like an overripe plum.

"Dio," he slurs through split, bloody lips. "Mercy. Please. I got a family, a kid on the way."

I crouch down until we're eye to ruined eye. "You should have thought of that before you decided to stick your grimy hands in my pockets." My voice is a low purr, almost gentle. "You know what they say, Sal. Thieves get what's coming to them."

I straighten languidly, smoothing the lapels of my suit jacket. "Marco, see to it that our friend here remembers his manners in the future. A few fingers should suffice." I give Sal a smile that's all teeth and malice. "For now."

Sal whimpers as Marco looms over him, meaty fists clenched in anticipation. But I'm already turning away, my mind churning with dark intent.

Luca Corsini is a dead man. He just doesn't know it yet. But he will. Oh, how he will.

First, I'll take his business, dismantle his empire brick by bloody brick. I'll pick off his lieutenants and foot soldiers like ducks in a shotgun gallery until he's left utterly alone, a king without a kingdom.

And then, when he's broken and beaten, when he's lost everything that ever mattered to him? I'll take his life, slowly, intimately, savoring every last gurgling scream. I'll carve my name into his still-beating heart and send it to his mother on a bed of rose petals.

The vindictive fantasy brings a twisted smile to my lips as I stalk out of the warehouse, Alonzo on my heels. Yes, I'll destroy Luca Corsini for his arrogance, his presumption. But more than that, I'll annihilate him for daring to covet what's mine.

The drive back to Shadowcrest is silent, the tension in the car thick as tar. My mind is a storm of dark thoughts, the plans for Luca Corsini's demise churning with relentless fury. But beneath it all, a different kind of unease gnaws at me—a gnawing, insidious doubt about Natalie.

As we pull into the long, winding drive of the mansion, the oppressive weight of uncertainty settles heavier on my shoulders. I need to know where her true loyalties lie. I need to break through her carefully constructed facade and see the raw truth beneath.

Stepping into the grand foyer, I pause, the sounds of the mansion washing over me. The distant hum of staff going about their duties, the soft strains of classical music wafting from the music room. But it's the faint, melodic laughter that draws me like a moth to flame.

Following the sound, I find Natalie in the parlor, the puppy at her feet. She's kneeling, her slender fingers entwined in the pup's fur, a genuine smile curving her lips. The sight sends a jolt through me, a mix of possessive pride and something deeper, more dangerous.

"Natalie," I say, my voice cutting through the moment like a blade.

She looks up, her eyes widening slightly before she schools her expression into one of polite interest. "Dante. You're back."

I step into the room, my presence filling the space. "I see you've made a friend."

Her gaze flickers to the puppy, then back to me. "He's wonderful. Thank you again, Dante. Truly."

I nod, crossing the room to stand before her. "Enjoy it, Natalie. This life, this privilege. Remember that it's mine to give and take away."

Her jaw tightens, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. "I haven't forgotten."

"Good," I murmur, reaching down to stroke the pup's head. "Now, come with me. We need to talk."

In the privacy of my study, the air between us is thick with tension. Natalie stands before me, her posture stiff, her eyes wary. I lean against my desk, studying her with a predator's gaze.

"Tell me, Natalie," I begin, my voice deceptively soft. "Do you ever think about leaving? About running away from this life, from me?"

Her eyes flash with something—fear, defiance, hope?—before she looks away. "No," she whispers. "I know what happens to those who cross you, Dante."

I step closer, invading her space. "Do you really? Or is this all just a game to you? A means to an end?"

She meets my gaze, her expression hardening. "What do you want from me, Dante? Do you want me to say that I hate you? That I despise every moment of this twisted charade?"

I grip her chin, forcing her to hold my gaze. "I want the truth, Natalie. I want to know what you're hiding. What you're planning."

For a moment, we stand locked in a battle of wills, the air between us crackling with intensity. Then, slowly, her shoulders sag, the fight draining from her.

"You want the truth?" she says, her voice a whisper. "Fine. I hate you. I hate what you've done to me, what you've made me."

Her words are a knife to my gut, sharp and unyielding. But there's something else in her eyes, something that betrays the venom in her voice. Fear, yes. Anger, certainly. But beneath it all, a flicker of something softer, more dangerous.

I tighten my grip on her chin, my voice a low growl. "And yet, you stay. Why, Natalie? If you hate me so much, why haven't you tried to escape?"

She closes her eyes, a shudder running through her. "Because I know you won't let me. Because I'm a prisoner here, and no matter how hard I try, I can't forget that."

I release her abruptly, stepping back. Her words sting, but they also spark a twisted sense of satisfaction. She's scared. She knows her place. But that flicker of softness in her eyes—it needs to be extinguished.