We simply sit like that for a while, neither of us speaking. I’m processing Noah’s breakdown—or rather, what that breakdown means—and Jazz is just being the good friend she is, knowing when to be quiet.
“Dante is good for Noah,” I say after a while, staring at the view through the window where the sun is breaking over the city.
Jazz nods a few times. “He can teach him things you can’t.”
A little offended, I steal a quick glance at her. “Like what?”
Staring straight ahead, she stretches her legs out in front of her. “To play soccer.”
I scoff and return my attention to the view. “I can play soccer.”
She huffs. “You can’t kick a ball if your life depends on it.”
Both of us chuckle, but our efforts are meek at best.
“He does need a daddy,” I say.
“He has a daddy.”
“We just have to find a way to make it work. Other divorced couples do. There’s no reason why we can’t.”
She leans her head on the wall and turns her face my way. “Tiana, I hate to break it to you, but Dante isn’t going to settle for only fifty percent of Noah’s time.”
“If I marry again, he’ll have to.”
“Are you saying you’re looking for a husband?”
“No.” I think about that. “Not necessarily.” Not that it wouldn’t be nice to have someone, someone who cares about me and who can offer me a pair of warm arms during all those lonely nights that are filled with my nightmares. “I’m just running different scenarios through my head.”
“Your ex won’t allow that. He’s always considered you to be his. That hasn’t changed.” No matter with how much compassion she delivers the statement, it still feels like a punch in the face. “I don’t think it ever will.”
That’s the thing about the truth. It always hits you the hardest.
Chapter
Twelve
Dante
* * *
The stench of blood, piss, charred flesh, and fear fills the warehouse situated on the outskirts of Boston. The carcass hanging on a hook from the ceiling is unrecognizable. You can barely guess it belonged to the homo sapiens species.
The door opens. Bright sunlight and a breath of clean, fresh air spill into the gloomy interior. Sav steps over the threshold and quietly closes the door behind him. He didn’t have to come, but he flew in from New York City anyway, using the opportunity to check on the money laundering business we run at a nearby cement factory.
He nods at Kent, who stands aside with his hands folded in front of him, and slowly walks over, inspecting the piece of meat dangling under the bare lightbulb.
He doesn’t as much as blink, but he flinches when he moves his gaze over me. “Jesus, Dante.”
I don’t have to look in a mirror to know I’m soaked in blood. It’s all over my face and has drenched my clothes and shoes. Many men in our circles believe the reason I can chop off body parts without showing a stitch of reaction is because I lack emotions.
That’s not true.
I experience feelings with overwhelming intensity. I just know which ones matter to me and which ones are worth my energy. The rest doesn’t faze me.
Take this piece of scum I turned into carpaccio, for instance. Now him I cared nothing about. His screams and pleas did nothing for me except bring me great satisfaction. What I did have strong feelings about was what he’d done to Tatiana. Those emotions were powerful enough for me to snuff out his life slowly and painfully, until he told me everything I wanted to know.
Admittedly, he did confess quickly. He wasn’t a loyal man working for someone he wanted to protect. He was just a lowlife fucker operating for money. The fact that his tongue loosened at the first swipe of my blade didn’t stop me from working on him through the night, torturing him to his last filthy breath.
