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Where the fuck was she?
“That’s your in,” the man continued, speaking in low tones despite the noise in the place. “I have information that two members of the Syndicate will be there. They all have a little S tattooed between their thumb and forefinger. Find them. Befriend them or interrogate them, it’s your call.”
He nodded.
He was going to infiltrate the Syndicate, the ghost organization that didn’t exist. He didn’t know who all were involved in it, or exactly what they did, but fuck if he let this shit run the show in his city while he took over. His father, from what Dante had inferred, either partnered with the organization in some way or did their bidding. He wasn’t involved, because he didn’t have a tattoo on his hand, and Dante had checked.
“Take a backup. A few men,” the Reaper told him, his hazel eyes serious on Dante, older, more experienced. Dante knew the man would kill his father one day, and honestly, if anyone deserved to kill the asshole, it was this man.
“I’ll take Tristan,” Dante nodded again, throwing some cash on the table out of habit, and got up, keeping his head low, walking out of the bar. It was an art, to blend with the crowd and the shadows especially with his height and build.
Walking to the pavement, Dante began to walk down the dark street, sending Tristan a text with the address and time through the disposable burner phone, knowing he would get there.
While teen Tristan had been a raging storm, adult Tristan had become the calm before it. He alone was enough of a backup, and Dante trusted the bastard to watch him. Tristan still barely tolerated him, but he was fond of Amara and knowing Amara loved his sorry ass was a point in his favor. Plus thankfully, Morana being fond of Dante had softened him, to the point that now Dante could make a quip and Tristan would just sigh and let it go. Sigh. The man never sighed. But Dante knew what love – and good sex – with the woman of one’s heart did for a man. He had known it for years, had survived for years because of it, had found strength in the darkest pits of hell because of it, because of her.
Amara.
A decade ago, Dante had loved the girl she’d been. Now, he was awed by the woman she had become.
He had seen her, every time he saw her, growing into her skin, glowing with her scars, becoming a woman who would one day rule by his side.
Dante had never known softness and strength could coexist together in such balance before her. Despite being through everything she’d been through, walking through hell and fighting the demons in her mind, she still had a love for life that unmanned him. The most generous of hearts, the most steely of spines, Amara was a woman of beauty, a warrior of blood, a queen of scars.
And he was one fucking lucky bastard that she felt an ounce of affection for him, enough to wait on his promises even as it hurt her.
Most people weren’t capable of that kind of love – to give so much without losing themselves. Yet, she did. With him, with her cat, with Tristan, and now with Morana, Amara gave.
He had dropped that cat Lulu - what the fuck kind of name was Lulu? – outside her apartment immediately after her exile, back when he’d thought he could let her go and stay away from her. He hadn’t wanted her to be completely alone and somehow, knowing she had a companion he gave her, made him feel closer to her. Although, she still didn’t know Lulu had been Dante’s gift to her. She said Lulu was her miracle at a time she’d needed it the most, and Dante let her believe that. One of them needed to keep believing in miracles.
Where are you, baby?
Fuck, he missed her. And he had no shame admitting how completely, utterly in love with her he was. If there was one thing his mother had taught him right at the beginning of his life, it was emotions and that feelings were powerful. And a man who denied them out of a misbegotten sense of societal norm was a fool. There was nothing more forceful than emotion, and Dante was witness to that. Hate for his father, revenge for his mother, justice for his brother and Roni, and love for Amara – all pure, unadulterated emotions in his veins, driving him to p
lan, plot, and plunder, piece by piece.
And after years, it was slowly coming to a head.
The address was a farmhouse eighty miles out of the city, deep in the country, registered under the name of one Alessandro Villanova. Dante had no idea who this guy was but as he and Tristan entered the property, his eyes took in the simple exterior. Too simple. It was a house one would pass on the highway without once taking a second look at. Dante knew how deceptive exteriors could be, and these simple grey walls were meant to deceive.
“Tell me you have a bad feeling about this,” Dante muttered to a silent Tristan, his stomach turning. Tristan’s jaw clenched. Answer enough. He believed his feelings now. If his gut said something was off, then something was off.
They sneaked around the shadows, weapons in hand, ready to attack or defend as needed.
Sounds coming from a room had them exchanging a look before they cautiously proceeded to it. Having worked together seamlessly for years, they were well in sync. Nodding on the count of three, Dante slowly extended his hand and pushed the door open, his heart calm but gut churning.
He and Tristan watched the four adults in the room, and suddenly, Dante knew exactly what the Syndicate was about.
Children.
Tristan’s fist slammed on the guy’s already swelling face. Dante stood to the side, letting him take his rage out. Dante knew seeing the girl, the red-headed little girl, in that place, in that position, had unlocked a slew of demons in Tristan’s head.
They had stumbled upon the scene and for the first time, Dante saw Tristan’s face break, knowing his own reflected the same. While they were murderers and monsters, there were some lines they could never, ever even imagine crossing. What they witnessed had been true monstrosity.
Somehow, they’d grabbed the first asshole who had left the room, the asshole with the S tattooed on his hand, and brought him to one of their warehouses to interrogate.
If Tristan’s hits were anything to go by, he wouldn’t be able to talk, much less give any coherent information. Time to step in.
Throwing his cigarette away, Dante put a hand on the younger man’s heaving shoulder.
