Chapter Forty-Five

Adele

I cling to Dante with my good arm, burying my face in the crook of his neck. His familiar scent—a mix of sandalwood and musk—washes over me, grounding me in this moment. My entire body trembles, a cocktail of adrenaline, relief, and overwhelming joy coursing through my veins.

"Oh my God, it was horrible in there. I just wanted you. Kept praying you would come. I love you," I murmur against his skin, my lips brushing his pulse point. "So much. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm good, baby." He rumbles.

I continue nibbling on his skin. "Well, I love you so much. Marry me, Dante, right now."

I can't stop the words from tumbling out, my filter completely obliterated by the night's events. My nails dig into the fabric of his shirt, desperate to get closer, to meld myself to him entirely. I pepper his neck with kisses, tasting the salt of his skin, and feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my lips.

Dante's arms tighten around me, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other supports my weight. Despite the chaos around us, his touch is gentle, careful of my injured shoulder. I feel the rumble of his chuckle more than I hear it.

"Amore mio," his chuckle vibrates against my chest, a soothing balm to my frayed nerves. "And you've not even been dosed up yet. I can only imagine what you'll be like once the drugs kick in."

I pull back slightly, meeting his gray eyes. The tenderness I see there, mixed with a fierce protectiveness, makes my heart stutter. "I'm not delirious, Dante," I insist, although I recognize the manic edge to my own voice. "I mean every word."

Dante's eyes search mine. "Okay," he says simply.

"Okay as in you don't think I'm delirious, or okay, we'll get married?"

Before Dante can respond, a familiar snarky voice cuts through my love-drunk haze.

"Addy. Will you please stop embarrassing me?"

I whip my head around quickly, wincing as the movement jars my injured shoulder. And then I see her in Sal's arms, still wearing that hideous green and brown dress that makes her look like a swamp monster's bride.

"Kira!" I shriek, relief flooding through me and overriding my snarky response. "Oh my God, Kira, you're okay! Where were you? I was so worried."

"I was busy reciting every spell known to man to magically castrate that absolute scum of the earth you were chanting some demonic wedding vows to," Kira spits. "Like, what the actual fuck, Addy? Disturbingly sickening does not even begin to cover it."

"I know." Kira hates Sean this much and she didn't even get to see the monster.

Sal whispers something in her ear, and I see Kira's jaw fall open as her eyebrows almost hit her hairline. I think I know what Sal might have said. "You've got to be shitting me! Addy! You killed him?"

"Trust me, Kira, you'd have done no less."

"And I was sitting in a dark room waiting to be rescued while you were being all badass Black Widow. Like, how are you even that woman?"

"I dunno," I smile. "Might have something to do with the company I'm keeping these days."

I look up at Dante, watching the expressions playing on his face as he gestures wordlessly to one of his men. My finger traces over the bold slash of his eyebrows, down the side of his face and his sharp jaw covered in stubble. I push a lock of hair that's escaped from his bun behind his ear, then trace the shell of it down to the small steel ring in his pierced earlobe.

"God, you're so fucking hot," I murmur.

"Uggggh, cringe. Can it stop already?" Kira grumbles, while still clinging to Sal like a baby koala. Her arms and legs are tightly wrapped around him, although I'm pretty sure she can walk.

I can't help the small giggle that escapes me. "Dante, am I being cringey?"

His lips quirk up in that devastating half-smile that never fails to make my insides melt. "Not at all, tesoro . I'm obsessed with you, too."

The world narrows down to just us as he leans in, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that's equal parts tender and possessive. For a moment, I forget about the blood coating my skin, the ache in my shoulder, the horrors of the night. There's only Dante, his solid presence anchoring me in the storm.

Dante breaks the kiss, then rests his forehead against mine for a moment before he pulls away and murmurs, "Let's get you away from here."

When we reach the van, Dante gently sets me on my feet, keeping one arm around my waist to steady me. The cool night air hits me, and I shiver, a reminder of how little I'm wearing. He removes his tactical vest then reaches behind him, fisting his T-shirt and pulling it over his head.

I watch, mesmerized, as he rips apart the shirt and then he's making it into some kind of sling for my arm. Heat radiates off his bare torso and suddenly I can't wait to be pressed close to him again, drowning in his fragrant warmth . . .

Just as he's tying off the makeshift sling, a tall figure approaches us from the periphery of my vision.

I tense instinctively, my fingers digging into Dante's biceps.

"It's okay, baby." Dante gently uncurls my fingers from his arm.

The man who steps into view is older, with graying hair and a weathered face that speaks of years of hard living. His light eyes—I can't quite make out the color in the dim light—are fixed on me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. There's something familiar about the set of his jaw.

He takes off his suit jacket and offers it to me, his voice gruff but oddly gentle as he asks, "If I may?"

I glance at Dante, uncertain. He gives a slight nod then takes a step away.

Taking that as reassurance, I allow the older man to drape his coat over my shoulders. The garment's warmth envelops me immediately, carrying the scent of gunpowder and mint, but it's the man's touch that truly captures my attention. His hands tremble slightly as he adjusts the coat, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

As he steps back, I catch another glimpse of his face. His eyes are surprisingly glassy. He turns abruptly and leaves, his shoulders shaking slightly as he walks away.

I look up at Dante, a suspicion forming in my mind. "Is that . . .?" I ask, my voice hushed.

Dante nods, his eyes following the retreating figure. "Yes. That's your father."

The words hit me hard. My father. The man I've wondered about my entire life, now just feet away from me.

"He's . . . um, very sweet," I manage to say, though the word feels inadequate.

Dante's chuckle is low and warm as he helps me into the bench seat, then follows me in. "He's very dangerous."

"How?" I ask, curiosity piqued. The emotional whirlwind of the night leaves me craving comfort, and I find myself leaning into Dante's warmth.

Noticing my restlessness, Dante gently pulls me onto his lap, then reaches into a compartment and retrieves a dark brown bottle.

"Here," Dante says, offering me the bottle. "Take some of this."

I eye the container warily. "What is it?"

His fingers brush mine as he hands me the bottle, sending a familiar tingle up my arm despite my exhaustion. "Liquid morphine. Just something to help you sleep until I can sort out your shoulder."

I take the bottle from him, our fingers lingering together for a moment longer than necessary. The liquid inside is sweet, almost cloyingly so, as it slides down my throat. Almost immediately, I feel a heaviness settling over me.

"How is he dangerous?" I ask again, fighting the pull of sleep.

"Orlando De Luca?"

I nod.

"He's the only man Nico fears."

The name registers, and for the first time, another piece of the puzzle clicks into place. "De Luca. Isn't he your ex-girlfriend's, er, ex-fiancée's father?"

Dante's arm tightens around me, his voice taking on an edge. "Alina is not my ex-anything. And you may want to stop calling her that, seeing as she's going to be my sister-in-law very soon."

It takes me a moment to process this information through the growing haze of the morphine. "Oh," I say finally. "So you're on board with the idea. I thought you said I was delirious."

"You're not delirious. Just in shock." Dante murmurs against my neck, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear in the confined space of the van. "Speaking of shock . . ." he pauses, and I know he's weighing his next words. "Benjamin O'Shea."

I inhale sharply, and the scent of leather and Dante fills my nostrils. For a moment, I'm back in that room, watching Benjamin crumple to the floor.

"He was shot right in front of me," I say, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.

Dante's hand finds mine, his thumb tracing soothing circles on my skin. "How do you feel about it?"

I consider the question, probing at the emptiness inside me. "Numb. Shocked. Terrified," I admit finally. "I suppose it'll hit me in a few days. But right now . . ."

I trail off, searching for the right words while Dante patiently waits. He's almost unnaturally still. Dante isn't accustomed to waiting for people to find their words. Yet he remains motionless, softly stroking my hand.

Finally, I say, "Right now, he's just the man who sold me to a hideously vile monster in exchange for an army."

As I speak, I feel a coldness settling in my chest. It's not grief, not yet. Just a hollow acknowledgment of the truth that eluded me for years.

Dante nods slowly, his steely eyes studying my face, and I wonder what he sees there.

"Are you okay though?" he asks softly. His free hand comes up to trace the ball of my injured shoulder, and I lean into his touch, craving more. "Is there anything else I should know about?"

"Anything else like?" I ask, a bit puzzled by his tone.

Dante's voice takes on a dangerous edge, reminding me of the ruthless man beneath the gentle exterior. "Like if I need to paint the streets of Philadelphia with blood?"

His words send a shiver down my spine, a mix of fear and something else I'm not ready to name.

I understand his unspoken question and I feel a flood of relief because Dante would do exactly that if Sean Hall had really hurt me. I meet his gaze steadily. "I'm okay. I mean we fought and I kicked his ass. Eventually. Only, I threw out my shoulder stabbing him from an awkward angle."

Silence.

"Okay, No, he didn't rape me," I admit.

Dante releases a pent-up breath.

"But there were . . . other women there. They're not just house staff."

"He traffics women on the side." Dante watches me for a bit then declares, "I'll see that they're all set free when we return for a thorough cleanup."

I think I know what Dante means by cleaning up. "Really?"

He sighs dramatically. "Well, you started a war when you drew first blood and killed their leader. There's bound to be sympathizers crawling out of the woodwork, so I'm going to have to finish it, aren't I?"

I raise my still trembling hand up between us, considering the weight of what I've done. "I can't believe I did that to Sean. I suppose I should blame you, Dante. You're the one who taught me how to kill."

He flashes me a grin. "Oh, I take complete ownership of both the crime and the criminal. But, tell me, how did it feel?" he asks, his voice dropping to a whisper. "In the moment?"

Again. I know exactly what he's asking me. The memory of the moment Sean's hand fell, twitching in surrender as the light left his good eye. I should be suppressing a shudder of shame and revulsion. But I'm not. And I've never been able to hide my true feelings from Dante, so I don't bother trying.

"Powerful," I whisper back. "Heady."

Dante's lips curve into a small smile of understanding. Pride even. How did I not see through Aydin's lies? Dante might not relish the gory side of his life, but he owns it unapologetically.

"What?" I ask, curiosity momentarily overriding my exhaustion when he continues to stare at me with that cryptic smile.

"I see you, Adele." He murmurs, "I've always seen you."

"And?" I prompt.

"You wouldn't last one therapy session with Sophie, either."

I laugh. "Well, we'll never know, will we? She's stopped taking family clients, thanks to the likes of you," I smirk.

Soon, the sedative takes hold, and I surrender to its warm, fuzzy embrace. As I drift off, I dream of a gray-eyed beast dragging me from beneath a table and into the sunset.