Chapter Eighteen

Dante

Smoke stings my eyes as I approach Ron Higgins. The head of the bomb squad is bent over the mangled remains of the Corolla, his movements precise and methodical, while my muscles tense, fists clenching and unclenching as I fight to maintain control.

"The other feds are gone, Ron. So, for fuck's sake, did you find something or not?" I growl. It's probably the tenth time I've asked him tonight, each repetition grating on my already frayed nerves.

My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to do something, anything. The urge to lash out, to destroy, pulses through me with each heartbeat. Instead, I force myself to stand still, to appear calm even as chaos rages within me.

The first nine times I asked, all Ron did was grunt. I know he found something; I'm sure of it, but he wouldn't say anything in front of the rest of his fellow agents. Now, with the area cleared and only us remaining, I wait for him to talk to me.

Ron is loyal to the Outfit, which means he won't report or file anything without passing it through me first.

It was almost impossible to keep the authorities out of this due to the overwhelming number of witnesses, but we at least managed to keep the media away. The PR team is doing damage control on the internet and seems to be steering the narrative so far, but my mind barely registers these small victories.

All I can think about is Pietro, my friend, and Addy . . . Christ, Addy. The image of her, pale and shaken, flashes before my eyes, and I have to suppress a shudder.

What if it had been her?

The question pokes at my brain every five seconds, driving me insane with the absolute horror of it.

"Dante." Grim-faced, Ron finally straightens from his crouch, holding up a small, charred piece of metal.

"What's that?" I ask, even though I already suspect the answer.

"It's the detonator," Ron says.

I nod for him to continue, my entire body tense as a coiled spring.

"It's military grade."

I grit my teeth, rage surging through me again, threatening to break free of my carefully constructed control. It's not an amateur attack. But I already knew that in my gut. Only two groups have access to those kinds of weapons: the US military, and people like me.

I clap him on the shoulders, my grip perhaps a little too tight. "Good work, Ron. You know what to do."

"Sure," he replies, understanding the unspoken order.

As Ron moves away, I'm left alone with my thoughts, each one more volatile than the last. Someone wants Addy dead, and they're ruthless enough to use a bomb. But last time I checked, I was the one who's in the habit of pissing off the Irish . . . so why her?

Although every single time I've pissed them off, Addy has been with me, so there's that.

And there's the issue of her father's enemies who may be seeking retaliation.

A million possibilities, each more terrifying than the last, race through my mind. It's like trying to grasp smoke. The need to hit something, to release this pent-up energy, weighs heavy on me. But I can't. Not yet. I need to stay focused, stay in control.

For Addy. For Nico. For everyone counting on me to fix this fucking mess.

I stalk into Resin, my blood still boiling. The club is empty now, save for a few trusted men. Sal is leaning against the bar, nursing a scotch. He looks up as I approach, then pours me a glass without a word.

The amber liquid sloshes in the crystal tumbler, catching the dim light. I down it in one gulp, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. It's not enough to dull the edge of my anger, but it's something.

"When are we going to see his wife and kids?" Sal's voice is rough with emotion.

I shake my head, pouring myself another drink. "Not we. I'll go see Sylvia and the boys as soon as I leave here. You are going to identify that bomber. And I want something before dawn."

Sal nods. "I'll see what I can do. But shit, it still feels like a dream." He pauses, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "Pietro was the best sniper we had, you know. Could shoot the dick off a mosquito from a mile away."

I chuckle despite the heaviness in my chest. "Yeah, and he was a cocky bastard about it too. Always bragging about his aim."

We lapse into silence, the weight of Pietro's absence hanging between us. He was more than just a soldier, more than a friend. He was family.

Sal drains his scotch, his eyes glinting dangerously in the low light. "Whoever is behind this blast had better give themselves a clean death now before I find them."

I see the look in his eyes and almost feel a flicker of pity for whoever is responsible. Almost. Sal can be creative when he's angry, and right now, he's livid.

"Kira and her Boston friends?" I ask, forcing myself to focus on the practical matters at hand.

"In good hands. My men have settled them in Hydrea Hotel."

I nod, relief mingling with the cocktail of emotions swirling in my gut. Then I ask the one question I've been dying to know, the one that's been burning in the back of my mind since I sent her away. "How's she?"

Sal clears his throat, his eyes meeting mine. "Red Wine? Not good. She's asking for you."

I tense, my grip tightening on the glass. The crystal edges dig into my palm, grounding me. She doesn't know what she's asking for. I'm dying to see her, to touch her and feel with my own hands that she's okay, but I'm feeling too raw right now.

I need to be in control with her, but right now, I'm barely holding it together.

"Not tonight, Sal," I say, but even I can hear the lack of conviction in my voice.

"Sure." He scoffs as if he knows that my resistance is currently in a watery puddle at my feet. "With or without the blast, the moment you saw her tonight, there was only one way it was going to end."

I force a smirk, trying to deflect. "You know, for a virgin, you seem to have a lot of insight into these matters. Did you finally get the birds and bees talk?"

"Maybe," he says with a secret smile that tells me I'm better off not knowing more. The corner of his mouth twitches, and then he changes the subject, his tone turning serious. "When do you need me tomorrow?"

I take a deep breath, the scent of whiskey and smoke filling my lungs again. "Be at the Fortress with the rest of the Caporegimes for an emergency meeting at noon tomorrow."

Sal's eyebrows shoot up. "But Don Vitelli is away."

Nico was in Paris with Sophie but has had to cut their vacation short and is on his way back now.

"Don Vitelli will be there," I finish grimly, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

Sal's eyes widen slightly. "Shit. Did you tell him everything?"

Everything except the part about Addy. I figured we could always light that powder keg when he returns. "I told him just enough to get him packing up."

I drain my glass, setting it down with more force than necessary. "Sal, I'll handle Nico. You just make sure the Capos are there tomorrow. And stay hot on the bomber's trail."

"Certo."

My voice hardens as I continue, "And Sal? I want every fucking thing there is to know about Benjamin O'Shea's dealings. Someone desperately wants his daughter dead."

"Consider it done," Sal says, his voice laced with deadly intent.

I pour another drink, the amber liquid sloshing against the crystal.

Someone and their entire family are going to bleed for this. And I won't stop until I find out who.