Chapter Four

Dante

I lean back against the cool leather of the SUV seat, drumming my fingers on my thigh, a heavy metal track blaring in one ear, drowning out the eerie silence in the car.

On my other side, the tinted window is rolled halfway down to let in Chicago's pulse. I welcome the sounds of wailing sirens in the distance, screeching tires, honking trucks, and shouting people—the city's chaotic symphony, finding it oddly calming.

But what I really need is a release of this coiled tension inside. The gym calls to me, weights and punching bags, but duty anchors me here, in the backseat, waiting for Salvatore, my right-hand man, to emerge from the tall white building across the street.

After what feels like hours but is, in fact, only five or ten minutes, Sal pulls open the door and slips into the driver's seat with a restless energy about him. He shakes off the cold like a wet dog and cranks up the heating to replace the warmth lost from my partially rolled-down window. Unlike me, Sal hates the cold.

"What do we know?" I ask in a flat voice.

He flashes me his signature boyish grin through the rearview mirror. "Can you believe that Boston has just sent someone to collect that sample?"

I shake my head in disgust and grumble, "That's too fucking close for comfort, Sal."

Someone must have tipped Boston off about my plan to get rid of that sample. The evidence being used to nail Martelli for murder—a piece of fiber lifted off the victim—was found to match the custom-made carpet in Martelli's Rolls-Royce.

We tried getting Ecolab to mix things up to buy time until we were able to get rid of the damning evidence for good. The operation was planned for tomorrow, but on a hunch, I decided to move things up and get it done today. Sal and the rest of my men thought I was crazy, as usual, but since no one had any real objection, here we are.

"True, it's close," Sal replies, "but thanks to you, we're still a step ahead of the prosecution."

That offers little comfort, knowing there are too many informants everywhere, turning this trial into a fucking game of spies. "As long as you're sure they haven't yet collected the sample."

Sal taps his thumb against the steering wheel in a rapid, three-beat rhythm—a nervous tic he hasn't managed to shake. "No, but they will be in due course."

Which, to Sal, probably means they're on their way right now.

I smirk at his precise vagueness. "Then give Pietro the clear to move."

" Sì, Dante." Sal settles back into the driver's seat, his eyes glinting with excitement. He clicks on his earbud and gives the order to Pietro. "We're all set. Go."

The tension in my shoulders eases slightly, though the weight of everything else remains, pressing down on me like a heavy cloak. One wrong move and this could all come crashing down on me.

Three years ago, two Capos, Tommy Martelli and Orlando De Luca, were on the verge of rebelling against the Outfit. Nico, the Don, and also my older brother, chose to eliminate only one of them: Martelli.

He offered me no explanation except for his gut instinct, which I respect, but I typically need more than a hunch to kill a man. So I insisted they both face the same justice—live or die. In one of his rare conciliatory moods, Nico relented and let them both live.

Now, it turns out Nico's initial instinct was spot on. Three years later, Martelli is in the feds' clutches, while I'm about to marry De Luca's daughter. And I now feel personally responsible for bringing Tommy Martelli to the justice he should have had from the very beginning.

Starting with getting his charges dropped.

"By the way, Dante," Sal says with a teasing grin, breaking the sudden tense silence, "I hear your future mother-in-law has been picking out china patterns and all. I dare say she is even more excited than the bride to get hitched to your family."

The thought of my impending marriage leaves a sour taste on my tongue and an unpleasant twisting in my gut. "Yeah? Well, I sincerely hope for her sake she lives to see the day." The words come out harsher than intended, but I don't give a fuck.

"Killing your future mother-in-law won't stop the alliance, fratello ."

"I have no intention of hurting her," I shrug. But if the woman's track record is anything to go by, the very things she's most desperate for have a way of eluding her.

I suspect Bianca De Luca is the major driving force behind this alliance. Years ago, she was supposed to marry my father, but she somehow missed out on that. And now her daughter is on the way to becoming a Vitelli.

If my wife-to-be didn't constantly torture my eyes with dirty texts, I would otherwise be inclined to think the woman was just as uninterested as me. But no, it appears the girl wants to marry me. As if the universe didn't hate me enough.

Fuck.

The very idea of marrying Alina to keep her mother happy and her father loyal to the Outfit makes my suit feel about three sizes too small, which is why I've moved the date back.

Twice.

Nico is pissed off, but there's not much he can do, considering he was the one who was supposed to marry Alina in the first place. That Nico ended up falling for another woman and graciously offered me up instead is just my rotten luck.

And however much the idea of being the sacrificial stud in this arranged marriage circus galls me, I can't put the marriage off for much longer without causing a rift in the Outfit.

Sal's teasing voice breaks through my thoughts. "You could at least pretend to be excited, Dante. Even Nico managed to act besotted while his engagement with Alina lasted. But you? You're openly sulking, and it's not a good look."

His words sting but sadly ring true. "I know it's hard, but you should try to mind your own fucking business once in a while, Salvatore," I snap.

Sal only laughs. "Dio mio , you're usually a better actor than Nico. A bigger asshole, yes, but you've always been great at hiding your true feelings. Or lack of thereof."

"I feel plenty," I counter, taking off the single earbud, no longer needing the frenzy of the heavy metal to ground me. I'm not even sure why I'm wasting my breath arguing with Sal. I know what he's doing.

Sal knows how tense I've been lately, and his way of helping is getting me to talk about the things that annoy me.

But I don't want to talk. I'd rather take it out on a punching bag or kill something. Feeling suddenly parched, I grab a bottle of water from the inbuilt cooler, unscrew the top, and take a deep drink.

"Dante, I meant feeling with your heart, not with your fists. Or your tiny junk."

Choking back a cough at his audacity, I retort, "You're a fine one to fucking talk about junk, idiota . When did you last talk to a woman for more than ten seconds? And no, that doesn't include your grandmother."

His grin widens, not the least bit fazed. "You're assuming there's a woman in the whole of Chicago that I want to talk to."

Sal is the youngest Capo, and for all his skill and brutality, he's still a virgin. I peeled him off the streets three years ago at twenty-one. A Harvard graduate, yet steeped in drugs and broken by trauma and loss. I helped him the only way I could. Therapy. And, of course, putting a gun in his hand.

Sal has since become the kid brother I never had. And let's just say, since knowing Sal, I've developed a new respect for Nico, who's lived with me for decades and somehow managed not to wring my neck for the things I must have put him through.

I take another swig of my water, then fix him a serious look. "Sal, it's not rocket science. Tell me what kind of woman you want, and I'll find her tonight."

"Alright." He shrugs. "I want someone different. Unconventional. Freakishly smart." Sal continues counting off the qualities of his ideal woman, but I don't hear any more as a flash of fiery hair and pouty lips flits through my mind like a neon sign.

Addy.

She's always there beneath the surface, teasing me with everything I can't have. Grating on my already thin resolve to leave her alone. But to go after her will be war.

It's been twenty-eight fucking months, my brain argues.

I clench my fist, willing away the reminders of her dark humor and quick wit. Of how ridiculously sexy she looked in my clothes. How she obliterated my self-control without even trying.

I shake my head, meeting his gaze. "Sorry, Sal. The woman you're looking for is too smart to get involved with men like you and me."

As if knowing the direction of my thoughts, Sal says, "You know, Dante, Alina will make you a good wife if you give her half a chance."

I snort. " Sì? And you know this because?"

"For one, she has a strong family name. Her father is the most powerful Capo, and her mother is a mafia princess from the famous Rinaldi family of New York." Sal's expression turns grave. "And most importantly, I'm sure she knows how to run a household of staff. I mean, what the fuck else could you possibly want?"

"For the life of me I can't imagine anything else," I reply, and we burst into simultaneous laughter.

As we settle, Sal tilts his head thoughtfully, a clear sign he's about to say something even more stupid.

"And let's not forget she's quite the looker too. Yes, probably not quite as breathtaking as Red Wine, but Alina holds her own."

My laughter instantly dies. "Don't fucking go there, Salvatore . . ." I warn, my hand curling into a fist I'd love to swing into his jaw. Red Wine is my men's alias for Addy.

"Fine, I'll drop it." He holds his hands up in mock surrender. "I'm just saying. You've got a lot to work with in your fiancée. And speaking of work, when is Kira due to appear on the Chicago scene again?"

My jaw tightens as I feel a familiar wave of protectiveness at the mention of the name of my father's ward. "How am I supposed to know?" I snap. "And why the fuck are you suddenly interested in Kira's movements?"

Sal grins. "We're extremely testy and prohibitive today, aren't we, Dante?"

"Don't use up all your Harvard words in one go, Sal. You'll need to save some for after I punch your lights out and you're reduced to babbles. Now what's your business with Kira?"

"Relax. I'm just looking to book her in for Resin Club launch night," Sal replies innocently, but a glint in his eyes tells me he knows exactly which of my buttons to push.

"So why don't you contact her agent?" I clip.

"Because I want to deal directly with Kira. I'm just checking to make sure that I won't catch a bullet for doing so."

I'm not stupid. I've seen the way Sal gets when he's around my father's ward. I just didn't think he'd have the guts to go there. I thought he'd want some easy lay as his first. The fucker is essentially taking permission to ask Kira out.

I should tell him to stay the fuck away from Kira. I want to say the words. I just can't get them past the tightness in my throat.

My resistance has taken its hardest hit in these past two weeks. Addy moving in with Kira has brought her another step closer into my orbit.

I have still managed to keep my distance, but something about the situation makes me feel like a kitten staring down a moving ball of yarn.

Imagine if Kira then decides that she likes Sal. My right-hand man and my father's ward spending time together will bring Addy another step closer to me.

How long before I take that inevitable leap at what's mine and let the shrapnel fall where they may?

I drawl, "I can't say for sure if you'll catch one or not, Salvatore. Why don't you try it first and see?"

Sal only laughs off my warning.

Before we can say more, an alarm blares from the building we've been watching, shattering the brief interlude.

"Here we go," I mutter, leaning back in my seat. My blood thrums with anticipation, every nerve ending coming alive. I live for this: the thrill of the job, the adrenaline rush.

We watch as people pour out of the place like ants from a disturbed nest. And then a curl of black smoke rises from behind the building, adding to the mayhem.

"You sick bastard," I say, shooting Sal a glance. "I told you to create an excuse to get the fire guys here, not to burn the place down."

He chuckles, completely unfazed. "Relax, it's just a desk. It won't cause too much damage before our men arrive."

I grunt in acknowledgment but keep my eyes trained on the unfolding scene. And then the sound of sirens pierces the air, growing louder by the second.

"And we're in business." Sal's smirk widens as fire trucks pull up to the curb, lights flashing like some twisted Christmas display.

A reluctant smile lifts the corner of my lips. The plan so far is going even better than I anticipated.

People mill around outside, talking hurriedly and casting nervous glances back at the building.

And then I spot him—Pietro, the man who went in for the sample in the thick of the distraction.

His black trench coat and hat, big stocky frame, and average looks blend him into the backdrop of aimless bystanders. But to the trained eye, his deliberate, unhurried gait, the tense set of his shoulders, and the watchful eyes scanning the area stand him out as a man with a purpose.

Which is why the street cameras have been disabled.

Pietro joins the crowd, acting every bit the concerned bystander. After a few moments, he saunters away from the assembly point, hands casually in his pockets as if he's just taking a leisurely stroll.

Then the car radio crackles to life with Pietro's voice, calm and composed. "It's done."

I let out a sigh of relief. "Good."

I focus on Pietro's retreating figure until he disappears around a corner, and the tension in my shoulders eases completely.

"Let's get out of here," I say.

Sal nods and starts the engine again, pulling us away from the scene as smoothly as we arrived.

As we drive off into Chicago's urban sprawl, my phone buzzes in my pocket, a jarring interruption to the satisfaction of a job well done. I fish it out, glancing at the screen. It's my brother, Nico.

"Fratello," I answer.

"What's your location?" Nico's voice crackles through the speaker, a hint of tension lacing his words.

I glance out the window at the passing cityscape. "Heading to Urban Elixir to see Martelli's lawyer. And then it's to the docks at midnight with the Senator's people."

There's a pause, then, "Great job with Ecolab. Now, forget Urban Elixir. You need to go home, you and Sal, there's something—"

I interrupt him. "How do you know the Ecolab job is done?"

Nico huffs out a laugh. "You're not as unpredictable as you like to think, Dante. You never fail to deliver where it counts. If only you'll stop juggling five things at once."

I suppose I should be flattered for being such a forgone conclusion. "You're catching on to how awesome I am," I smirk, "I dare say Sophie is finally rubbing off on you. How are she and the twins, by the way?"

"Very much mine, fuck you," Nico bristles, and I laugh. My brother's possessiveness of his pregnant wife is off the charts. Not that I blame him. She's the woman who holds the heart—and balls—of the ruthless Don of the Chicago Outfit in her dainty hands, after all.

"Listen," Nico continues after a slight hesitation, "We've got company. The Irish are here."

My eyes nearly pop out of my head. "You have got to be shitting me." I put him on speaker, so Sal can hear and know I'm not hallucinating.

"Afraid not. They're at the Urban Elixir as we speak. De Luca reported it himself. They're not causing a scene, but they ought to know who owns that club."

My grip tightens on the phone, knuckles whitening. "The fuck are they playing at?"

I can't believe what I'm hearing. The audacity of these Irish pricks, waltzing into our territory like they own the place. It's a goddamn slap in the face.

Nico's voice cuts through my seething. "Listen, Dante, I called you because I want you to steer clear. The last thing we need is another incident like last time."

The memory floods back, unbidden. Those two Irishmen hurling slurs at Addy. My vision had gone red, and bullets were flying out of my pistol before I even registered the thought. It had been a fucking mess, reigniting the simmering war between us and the Irish Mob.

I take a breath, trying to calm the rising tide of anger. "But they can't show up like this, Nico. Not after everything."

"I know, I know. Just let me handle it, alright? I don't want you running into them and starting another war."

That's where Nico and I are different. I shoot first and ask questions later. He likes to do things the other way around.

"But another war is exactly what they're asking for, fratello ."

"You don't know that fratellino ," he replies. "There has to be a reason for their presence. This time, Dante, I want answers, not bodies. Therefore, you and Sal are off tonight. Enzo and Orlando will handle it."

Like hell they will.

"Nico," I protest, "I'm literally minutes from the place right now. You'll be hard-pressed to drag Enzo from under a mountain of vomit and diapers."

Enzo is a high-ranking Capo and the proud and exhausted father of four-month-old sextuplets. He's a sharp and dependable soldier, but since his babies arrived, he's become one of those people who completely switch off when they're off duty.

"Still, better Enzo than you," Nico snaps. "I don't trust nor expect you to shoot straight with the Irish—not since that crap you pulled two years ago. Go home, Dante. I don't want you doing anything stupid tonight. Capisci?"

I grunt in acknowledgment and end the call, shoving the phone back in my breast pocket with more force than necessary as Sal executes a smooth U-turn.

What the fuck do those Irish want? I've stayed away from their precious little princess for the sake of peace, even though it killed me to do it.

I've not even stepped into Boston for two years. I've been a choir boy, playing by their rules. But do I get a medal from the smug pricks? No, instead, we get shit hurled at us.

I lean back in my seat, my jaw clenched tight. "Turn around, Sal. We're heading for the Urban Elixir Club, after all."

"The Urban Elixir? But didn't Don Vitelli just say—?"

"I know what Don Vitelli said," I snap, "But we've got some Irish gentlemen who seem to have lost their way. The least we can do is stop by and help them find it. Have Pietro meet us there."

Sal's eyes widen, but he doesn't argue. He nods and changes course again, and I catch him trying to suppress a grin. Sal lives for moments like this too. Unpredictable. Dangerous. Besides, there's nothing like a good old confrontation to reset eroding boundaries.

I may have promised Nico I wouldn't do anything stupid, but I never said anything about not doing something necessary.

It's time to remind those pricks just whose city they're in.