Enzo’s expression is rigid. Elijah’s fingers drum the car like he’s counting down to a funeral.
My legs wobble but I walk.
The garage is full of small, vicious sounds—the hum of an idling engine, the scrape of gravel under boots, a soft metallic clink from Dante shifting his weight. No music. No bodies. No witnesses.
He planned it that way.
When he finally steps forward, his scent hits me—old money, cold cologne, cigarette ash, and the faint, stubborn echo of something I once loved. The memory is worse than the man.
He tilts his head, sizing me up as if deciding if I’m worth the bullet.
His eyes catch mine, and the look is a slow, precise knife.
“You made it,” he says, short and bored. No warmth. No courtesy. “Ace, I’m so glad you are unharmed.”
“Yeah, I don’t need that. Let’s just cut to it.” My words are flat. I don’t want the false pity.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re very enjoyable, you know.”
The compliment is varnished cruelty.
I keep my eyes on him.
Enzo and Elijah move closer behind me, a wall of muscle and loyalty trying to be brave.
“Where is everyone?” Enzo asks, scanning the shadows.
“I wanted to keep this moment for family.” Dante rests his hands on the SUV, claiming it. Claimingus.
“Family, and… Elijah, apparently?”
He says it like a question directed toward Enzo.
Elijah steps forward. “I was at the meeting with Nikolai, it only made sense to collect her”
Dante’s gaze flicks to Enzo, then back to Elijah.
“I’m old, not stupid. I know Nikolai had to think you too were both working for him.”
He begins to circle them, a butcher appraising meat, his fingers brushing the pistol grips. With a casual, planned motion, he strips the guns from their waistbands, the metal clicking loud in the quiet. “What I don’t understand is why you came here.”
Elijah opens his mouth but Enzo clamps a hand on his arm, hard enough to hurt.
Dante stops in front of me.
His hands lift, and for one sickening second, I think he’s going to hug me.
Instead, his palms cradle my face—big, warm, familiar, monstrous. His thumbs stroke my cheek gently, tenderly, like the father I used to believe he was.
“My girl must die to keep the peace,” he says, the words sounding practiced.
“You’ve already lived too long, my girl.”
A tear streaks down my cheek. “I haven’t lived at all.”
“You would have made your mother proud.”
I look at him, feeling nothing in my chest. “You wouldn’t have.”
