“And you’re my strong left hand. It’s your job to keep these fuckers in line.”
It wasn’t anything he didn’t know. He’d been the strong left hand from the moment he turned sixteen and Lorenzo handed him a gun and told him to take care of the kneeling man at their feet. A traitor, though Dante couldn’t remember what he’d specifically done. Maybe his first kill should have meant something, but he’d felt nothing at all. It turned out he was good at it, which suited his uncle perfectly.
His gaze tracked to the photos of Rose. “If you and Matteo can’t handle a little dustup with Kirill, then my cousin won’t be holding the territory long after your death.” Matteo didn’t have a problem with cowardice, but saying as much would just give his cousin more trouble. Lorenzo lashed out when he got pissed, and Dante wasn’t close enough to direct his fury.
Lorenzo sputtered, and then his voice went low and deadly. “Listen to me, you little shit. I pulled you out of the gutter after your whore mother offed herself. I gave you our family name and raised you like my own son. You will obey me and get on the next fucking plane home.”
Dante welcomed the wash of red over his vision. His mother had died when he was fourteen, an accidental overdose. It had taken another year before Lorenzo appeared and hauled him in. None of it would have happened if Lorenzo himself didn’t throw her out when she got knocked up and ruined his plans to marry her off to secure some alliance, but he liked to keep that little bit to himself when he went on these guilt trips.
They never worked. The old man might have taught Dante plenty, but Dante had more than paid any debt, and he’d never forget where the cycle of suffering started. He hated Lorenzo, but offing the old man wasn’t his play to make.
“Lorenzo.” He didn’t bother to warm up his tone. “I’m not some naive sixteen-year-old anymore. You talk to me like that again, you bring up my mother again, and I’ll kill you myself. I said I’ll be home when I’m ready, and I will. Deal with your shit on your own for once.” He hung up.
His family’s petty feuds were understandable, if predictable. His grandfather and Romeo Capparelli—the current Romeo’s grandfather; the Capparellis liked to name their firstborn sons Romeo—used to be friends. Or so the story went. It reeked of fairy tale by this point. Each family had their own version of events, about how Romeo married off his little sister to Dante’s grandfather and she died a within the first year. Verduccis claimed accident. Capparellis claimed murder. The truth didn’t matter. The Capparellis drove Dante’s grandfather out of New York, drove them off the East Coast entirely. He went back to Italy, married another mob scion’s daughter, and took over a section of LA.
Maybe the feud should have ended there, but his people loved nothing more than to hold grudges and nurse them like they were children. It wasn’t long before the Verduccis were feuding with the LA Romanovs, too.
Dante, frankly, didn’t give a fuck.
The entire Verducci clan could rot, for all he cared, with one notable exception. His cousin, Matteo. It was Matteo who effectively held his leash, not Lorenzo. And Matteo was playing a deeper game than anyone. Eventually he’d get tired of his father wasting valuable resources and put a bullet between his eyes. Not a day too soon, from where Dante stood.
He picked up the photo of Rose again. She looked different than she had the entire time they dated. They’d both been playing their respective roles, and he’d enjoyed the fuck out of mining the truth from fiction when she shared things with him. She was so fucking clever, and her mundane persona was nearly as good as his was. She might not have realized the depths of the game they played, but she was no wide-eyed naive innocent.
Now the veil had been torn away and there was only the truth between them. Going forward there would only ever be the truth between them.
Anticipation curled through him. It had been a very long time since he’d felt anything but apathy. Things followed their planned course, and he did what was expected of him, going through the movements. He liked his life just fine. He bought what he wanted, had his pick of people to fuck, and killed anyone who got in his way. No one surprised him. Not when people were so damned predictable.
Rose surprised him when she shot him. Oh, he’d known she was capable of it. She wouldn’t have maintained her position as Romanov heir if she wasn’t willing to get her hands dirty.
But she shot him.
He’d seen her mask fall away in that moment, the regret and fury and something unknowable in her hazel eyes. Even with that regret, she hadn’t hesitated to pull the trigger. She hadn’t let her emotions dictate her actions. She’d used cold, ruthless logic and done what needed to be done.