Chapter Nine

Dante

THREE WEEKS LATER

The desperate words of Jim Pearson, a wiry man with a receding hairline and a pinched expression, crackle through the surround sound system in my study.

The only light comes from the flickering screen of the large, wall-mounted TV, bathing the dark wood paneling in an eerie glow. I lean back in my leather armchair, a glass of Macallan 18 cradled in my hand, savoring the aftermath of today's courtroom fiasco with a twisted sense of satisfaction.

Pearson now stands outside the courthouse, surrounded by a swarm of reporters, his once iron-clad case unraveling. Two of his key witnesses changed their minds at the last minute and another two have disappeared.

He knows that his witnesses didn't just change their minds on a whim—they were persuaded. Strongly.

Tommy Martelli's lawyers also played their cards right—the cards I dealt them.

"Do you think the judge will dismiss the case?" a reporter asks Pearson.

I turn off the TV and sip my whiskey, savoring the smoky burn and knowing that the dismissal of the case is practically in the bag.

Dismissing the trial is only the beginning. Tommy Martelli is a dead man, no doubt, but a twinge of regret grips me when I think of his family. No one should have to pay for the sins of their father. I wonder just what strings I'll have to pull to save Tommy's sons from the grave their father dug them when my phone buzzes beside me with an incoming text.

I don't need to look. I know it's from my wife-to-be.

Alina De Luca is nothing if not predictable. She sends me a dirty text every night at precisely eleven-thirty. Which then makes me glance into my phone screen to see Addy. And then I go a little crazier every night.

And so with a wry smile, I glance at my phone display. Addy's photo stares back at me as usual, a reminder of a world that should never have collided with mine.

My heart clenches, the familiar ache spreading through my chest. Three weeks ago, I'd taken that photo as she walked away from me, her fiery red hair flowing in the wind, my blood, sweat, and cum on her.

For twenty-eight months, I've tried to respect the Mob's wishes and stay away. To keep her oblivious to the realities of her life. But every night, the lines blur a bit more. And then, three weeks ago, the universe dropped her right in my lap. And still, I let her go.

I feel like a fucking saint at this point.

Needing to drown the driving urge to do something about this aching emptiness in my chest, I crank up the volume of my AirPods until Metallica's thunderous riffs blast through my ears. Then I open Alina's text.

I cant wait.??????

Real classy, doll. What are we, twelve? I roll my eyes and run a hand down my face, suddenly feeling every one of my thirty- one years. Why do her texts feel so . . . juvenile? Each one is a reminder of the commitment I'm being shoehorned into.

The eight-year age gap between Alina and me feels like a chasm, even though it's the same as the one between Addy and me. But that's the thing with Addy, though. Her soul is . . . ageless.

If anyone had told me a woman's scars would drive me insane with need, I'd think they were high as a kite. But no, suddenly, a survivor of a bullet graze to the pericardium is the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen.

I fish the plain engagement ring out of my pocket and stare at it. I should've given it to Alina three weeks ago, the very day my red-headed witch waltzed back into Chicago and turned my life upside down again.

Screw it. I need to rip off the Band-Aid.

I dial Nico's number, giving zero fucks that it's almost midnight. Nico, until about a year ago would usually work out until midnight. But I know he's not in the gym right now. He's in bed with his wife.

Not that I blame the guy. He's happier, wealthier, more efficient, and with a lot more allies. The entire organization is in a better place because he's wrapped around that woman every night.

He picks up on the sixth ring. "This better be good," he grumbles, his voice rougher than sandpaper.

"I can't marry De Luca's daughter," I say, skipping the pleasantries.

Dead air. Then, "Are you shitting me? We're fresh out of Vitellis to trade with. You're the last horse in the stable."

I snort. "Why even bother with the horse when I can provide a gallon of premium Vitelli juice to knock themselves up with?"

It's a low blow, but I'm not feeling charitable right now. It's not Nico's fault that Alina changed her mind at the last minute, and no one knows the real reason why.

It's been the story of our lives since high school. The girls want one brother until they meet his lookalike, and then they want him, too. After a while Nico and I started sharing just to save time. At first, it was fun. And then it became inconvenient. Now it just fucking grates on my nerves to be reduced to a walking service stud.

"Christ, fratellino , you sound like a whiny brat," Nico yawns. "What, you've found a better bloodline to line up your genes with? Or are you just bitching about getting hitched?"

He sounds groggy, but I know he's not the least bit sleepy. He's just thrown me a challenge—daring me to admit something.

I say nothing.

"Dante, is there someone else?" Nico presses, proving me right, and for a moment, I wonder if one of my flight crew has talked.

No, it can't be any of them. They know better than to breathe a word about the things they see. Not unless they fancy breathing through a new orifice. Sal, though? That motormouth would sing like a canary on crack if Nico looked at him funny. But Sal wasn't there that night, thank fuck.

"No," I lie through my teeth.

"So, what's the problem? Alina's a knockout, and this marriage is crucial for the family."

"I need more time."

He curses colorfully, every pretense of sleepiness out of the window. "More time for what? To moon over Red Wine? Yeah, I know about the guy you have tailing her. Real subtle, Dante. Why don't you just skywrite ‘I'm fucking obsessed' while you're at it?"

Fuuuck. Why can't Sal keep his trap shut to save his life? He's the only one who knows about the guy I hired to watch Addy from afar.

"She's under my protection," I say, trying to keep my voice level.

"Bullshit. Protection from what, her own family? You're fixating, and you know it."

"I'm not." I am.

Not many things hold my attention, but when they do, it's hard for me to let go. In Addy's case, what am I supposed to do when Benjamin O'Shea doesn't give a fuck that his daughter leaves one crime scene after another and cycles around Boston at all hours? She might as well wear a neon sign screaming ‘Kidnap me! I'm fun!'

But that's all fine with Benjamin, just as long as the Italian bogeymen don't touch his precious daughter. Because clearly, we're the only danger that exists in the world.

"You are fixating, fratellino ." Nico insists. "You can only control that impulse for so long and not if you keep obsessing. And it's only a matter of time before you snap."

"You make me sound like a fucking psychopath. I've kept it under control for over two years, haven't I?"

"Oh, you want a medal for keeping your word? Staying away from O'Shea's daughter is the price we paid for what you did in that restaurant."

Like I need to be reminded. "I know."

"Dante, you've not lost a mental battle since . . . forever. But you'll lose your mind if you don't take it off Red Wine."

"What, now you're a shrink because you married one?" I sneer.

"Dante, come on. You can't resist setting fires to rules that don't make sense. You're a pyromaniac in a world made of matchsticks."

I roll my eyes, but I have to admit that Nico is right. "Sounds like you've been peeping into the good doctor's notes. Or maybe you're lifting quotes directly from your own therapy sessions."

I hear Nico's heavy sigh, as if he's carrying the weight of our entire empire on his shoulders. Which, to be fair, he is.

"Dante, we have spent the last few years cementing the cracks of the broken city we inherited from Father. Orlando De Luca is a major fault line we can't afford to gape any wider. Any rebellion now, and we could lose our heads. Father, Mother, you, . . . Sophie."

Nico's voice catches on his wife's name and my heart squeezes like it's caught in a vice.

My brother loves his wife more than anything, which is why he's afraid of De Luca's rebellion. The rest of us he can risk, but he's terrified of Sophie getting a hangnail, let alone seriously hurt.

No Caporegime should be allowed to wield this much power over his Don.

"Nico," I say gently, as if talking down a spooked horse. "You do realize that a bullet in Orlando De Luca's brain would guarantee the peace you want, much more than a ring on his daughter's finger, don't you?

Nico grunts like he's entertaining the idea. "Really? And how would that work?"

I lean forward to press my point. "A handful of seasoned ghost assassins. Spaniards or Russians. We take out Orlando, Bianca, Bianca's father Don Rinaldi, and her three brothers. All six of them in one fell swoop."

Nico contemplates this for a full minute. I can practically hear the gears grinding in his head. "Tempting, Dante. Very tempting, but no. I'll take a marriage over a massacre. Less paperwork, you know?"

I shrug. "I knew you'd say that. You always were a hopeless romantic."

Nico's tone goes hard as nails, every trace of humor drained out. "Anyway, here are your orders, Capo. First, pack in the stalkfest. Get her out of your system, or keep her as a side piece. I don't care what you do as long as you don't bring her anywhere near Chicago."

"And second?"

"You have six weeks to marry Alina De Luca. Capisci?"

"Sì , capito , Don Vitelli," I drawl, the words like ashes in my mouth.

The line goes dead, leaving me alone with my thoughts like a mobster in solitary.

I take a minute to mull over my ‘orders.'

Get her out of my system? Might as well try to win a marathon without a finish line. In hell. Wearing lead boots.

But I could marry Alina, then I wouldn't need to try to purge my brain of her because Addy wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole. Hell, she'll probably have my head on a platter if she finds out I was spoken for when I fucked her three weeks ago.

Flashes of memory light up my brain. The way her body spoke to me, a language more compelling than any omertà. The way her cries echoed over the idling jet engine. The way she looked when she'd finally taken all of me—like she'd found Nirvana in the ninth circle of hell. The way she moaned as I spurted deep inside her.

And far above all that, how fucking right she felt as her heart pounded against mine, asking me to keep her safe. To keep her. Period.

Before I picked up the phone to call Nico, I knew he'd never agree to kill De Luca. Just as I know Nico heard me loud and clear. I'm not going to marry De Luca's daughter. Not even if hell freezes over.

Which is why I know, without a doubt, that Nico is lying wide awake right now and planning contingencies. He probably has a whole playbook of ‘What To Do When Your Brother Goes Rogue' scenarios.

What he doesn't know, though, is that Chicago will be getting a lot of Red Wine—and very soon.

Because I've already lost it. I have every intention of breaking my word and taking what's mine. Even if it means setting fire to this empire and watching the streets turn red.

Fuck me. I need another drink. Or ten. Something strong enough to make me forget I'm about to start a war over a girl.

Again.