CHAPTER ONE
Dante
The bass from the club floor vibrates through the walls. But back here, in the storage room that doubles as my office when I need privacy, the only sound is Adrian Morelli's ragged breathing.
I adjust my cufflinks—platinum, understated—and take my time crossing the concrete floor. My three-piece Tom Ford fits like it was painted on, because it was made for me, and the slight give of Italian leather beneath my feet reminds me that everything in my world has its place. Order. Control. Precision.
And if I know one thing it’s that Adrian doesn't fit anymore.
He's zip-tied to a metal chair, flanked by two of my men who know better than to speak unless I ask them a direct question. I can see the sweat that darkens his collar. His usually slicked hair hangs limp across his forehead, and his breath—Christ, hisbreath carries that sour-sweet stink of bottom-shelf whiskey that makes my jaw lock.
I hate drunks.
The smell alone drags me back to places I've spent a decade burying, but I shove it down and let the cold settle in my chest where it belongs. Emotion is a liability. Sentiment gets you killed. My father taught me that, even if he learned it too late.
"Adrian." I stop three feet away, hands in my pockets, my voice even. "Do you know why you're here?"
His head jerks up, bloodshot eyes struggling to focus. "Dante, listen, I can explain?—"
"I didn't ask for an explanation. I asked if you know why you're here."
He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "The money. I know. I just need a little more time?—"
"You had time." I pull out my phone, scroll through the ledger Rafe sent me this morning. "March nineteenth. We forgave fifty-three thousand because you'd worked with us for six years. You cried. You promised it would never happen again and that you would return them. Do you remember?"
"Yes, but?—"
"April twenty-second. You were back at the tables. May eleventh, you borrowed from a loan shark in Brooklyn. June third, you missed a payment to us. And last week—" I look up, let him see the flatness in my stare, "—you placed a thirty-thousand-dollar bet on a basketball game. Withourmoney."
"I was going to win it back?—"
"But you didn't."
The silence stretches and one of my men shifts his weight. I don't look at him, but I know he's wondering if I'm going to draw this out or end it quickly. Even they can't always predict me, and I like it that way.
Predictability gets you killed in my world. It's why I vary my methods deliberately. Sometimes I'm surgical and quick. Other times I let fear do the heavy lifting, let a man's imagination run wild with what I might do. Sometimes I'm generous when they expect violence. Sometimes I'm brutal when they expect mercy.
A man who can't anticipate your next move can't prepare a defense, can't plot against you, can't find your weaknesses. My men respect me more because they never know which Dante they'll get when they walk into a room. It's not cruelty for cruelty's sake—it's strategy. And that respect, that uncertainty, keeps them sharp. Keeps them loyal. Keeps them alive. And most importantly—keepsmealive.
Adrian's breathing picks up. "Please. I'll get it. I swear to God, I'll get every cent?—"
"You have nothing left to get it with." I slide my phone back into my pocket, then smooth my jacket. "I've seen your accounts. Your credit's torched. Your car's leased. Your apartment's two months behind. You're a financial corpse, Adrian. You just haven't stopped moving yet."
His face crumples. For a second I think he might cry, and the disgust rises sharp in my throat.
"One day," I say, my tone unchanged. "You have twenty-four hours to bring me eighty-seven thousand dollars, or you die. No extensions. No negotiations."
"I don't have it!" His voice cracks, desperation bleeding through. "Dante, please, I've been loyal?—"
"Loyal?" The word tastes bitter. "You stole from me. You lied. You gambled with money that wasn't yours and lost. That's not loyalty, that's suicide."
I nod to Marco, the man on Adrian's left. He steps forward, produces a pair of pliers from his jacket, and Adrian's eyes go wide.
"Wait—wait, no, please?—"
"You want more time?" I ask, almost conversational. "Then you need to understand what happens when you waste mine."
Marco grabs Adrian's hand, wrenches it flat against the armrest. Adrian thrashes, but the zip ties hold, and my other guy—Sal, built like a fridge—clamps a hand on his shoulder to keep him still.
