Dante's POV
The cemetery was quiet.
I never stayed long when I visited. Not because I didn't want to—I just never knew what to say. What could I say? Apologies meant nothing to the dead.
I crouched beside the headstone, my fingers brushing against the engraved marble. My father's name stood out in bold lettering. Leandro Romano. It had been sixteen years since he was gunned down in the streets, sixteen years since I'd taken over.
But the guilt that settled in my chest didn't belong to him.
It belonged to them.
I stood, shifting my gaze to the graves beside his. Elena Romano. Sofia Romano. Two names carved into stone, both stolen from me in the fire that burned our home to the ground. Ten years had passed, yet the flames still danced in my nightmares, licking at my skin, and filling my lungs with smoke.
I could still hear Sofia screaming for me, her hands gripping at the locked door. I could still see my mother's terrified eyes, the moment she realized I wouldn't reach them in time.
I had failed them, and No matter how many men I killed, how much power I held, I couldn't rewrite that night. Couldn't silence Sofia's screams. Or erase the smell of burning flesh.
I exhaled slowly, my breath misting in the cold morning air.
"Your father would be proud," a voice cut through the silence.
I didn't turn around. "He'd call me a fool first."
Gabriel Rucci stepped closer, his presence as calm as ever. He was one of the few men I trusted, currently handling business at another location. If he was here, it meant something was wrong.
"I heard about the trouble with the press and police," he said.
I finally looked at him. "Nothing I can't handle."
Gabriel studied me for a moment before nodding. He knew better than to push.
"You need anything?" he asked.
"No."
"Okay, I just thought to check on you, i knew you'd be here today."
I came here at the same time every year, it was no secret. Gabriel Rucci knew me better than anyone.
"Next time, meet me at the house," I said.
That was the end of the conversation. Gabriel knew I didn't entertain small talk, especially not here. He gave a brief nod before stepping back, leaving me alone with the dead.
I stayed a few more minutes, letting the silence sink in before turning away. There was nothing left to say.
The drive back to my estate was quiet. My driver didn't speak, and I didn't offer conversation. I leaned back against the seat, staring out the window as the city passed in a blur. Past and present. Always colliding.
One moment, I was a grieving son kneeling at my family's graves. The next, I was the man people feared, the man that was expected to hold everything together. There was no room for grief in this life.
By the time we pulled up to the estate, I had locked those emotions away. There was work to do.
But the second I stepped inside, I knew something was wrong. Enzo, my consigliere, was waiting. His stance was rigid, and his expression unreadable. I didn't ask. I just waited.
"A shipment got hit."
Everything stilled.
"Where?"
"Warehouse near the docks."
"Casualties?"
"A few. None of ours. But we found bodies."
I was already moving before he finished.
"Get the car."
Enzo didn't hesitate. He turned and followed me out.
The ride to the docks was tense. Enzo sat beside me, silent but alert. He knew better than to ask if this was the Russians—I was already thinking the same thing.
By the time we arrived, my men were waiting. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood.
The bodies were laid out in a row, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing. I crouched beside one, studying his features. He wasn't Bratva. Not one of the Russians.
"Recognize them?" I asked.
Enzo shook his head. "Hired hands, maybe."
I clenched my jaw. Someone had come for my shipment. Someone wanted to make a move but didn't have the guts to do it themselves.
"Find out who sent them."
By the time my men were done digging, they found nothing. No connections. No names. Just bodies and questions.
That meant one thing. It was time to pay the Bratva a visit. I turned to leave, but Enzo stepped in my path.
"Dante."
I met his gaze, already knowing what was coming.
"You're walking into Bratva territory with no proof." His voice was steady, but there was tension beneath it. "Whoever hit us wanted to stir shit up. You go storming in there, you're playing right into it."
I exhaled sharply, my patience thinning. "What do you suggest?"
"We wait. We dig deeper before we make a move."
"And give them time to cover their tracks? No." I stepped around him, but he grabbed my arm.
"Damn it, Dante—"
I yanked free. "We don't wait. We don't hesitate. That's how you get killed in this business."
Enzo's jaw clenched, but he didn't argue. I turned to the others. "We leave now."
No one questioned me.
The Russians weren't expecting me. I could tell by the way the air shifted the moment I stepped into their bar. Conversations stopped, tension filled the air, and some reached for their guns.
Sergei Ivanov, the Bratva's leader, leaned back in his seat, swirling a glass of vodka in his hand. He didn't look surprised to see me. Amused, maybe. But not surprised.
"Dante Romano," he drawled, his accent thick but his words smooth. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I took my time, walking toward him, my men close behind. "Had a little incident a few hours ago. Shipments got hit."
Sergei arched a brow. "And you think we had something to do with it?"
"You tell me."
He smirked, before tossing back his drink. "If I wanted your shipments, I wouldn't be subtle about it."
He was challenging me. I didn't smile, or even blink. "Then who did?"
I studied him carefully. He was an arrogant bastard, but he wasn't stupid. And he wasn't lying.
I turned to leave.
And then someone made a mistake.
"You should be more careful, Romano," a voice sneered from the side. "Wouldn't want to end up like your old man."
The words hit me hard, and my body reacted before my mind could even process it. One moment, I was standing near the exit. The next, I had my gun pressed to the Russian's forehead.
The air changed in an instant. Guns were drawn, safeties clicked off. The room felt like it was a heartbeat away from exploding.
The man beneath my aim swallowed hard, but he didn't speak.
Smart.
"You got a death wish?" I murmured.
More silence.
Sergei exhaled. "A storm is coming, Dante. Best not to drown before the real waves hit," Sergei said, rolling his gold ring between his fingers—a habit of his when deep in thought. He always spoke in proverbs, his words both a warning and a challenge.
I didn't lower the gun.
"He's an idiot," Sergei continued. "Let it go."
I considered it for a moment, then pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
The Russian froze. His breathing turned shaky, his chest rising and falling fast. For a second, he looked confused. Then it hit him that he was still alive. His eyes darted between me and the gun, his body stiff, waiting for what would happen next.
A drop of sweat rolled down his face.
No one moved. My men stayed still. The Bratva stayed still. Everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see if I'd pull the trigger again.
Sergei let out a slow sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Dante," he muttered, sounding more tired than alarmed.
I let the silence drag on, letting the Russian sit in his own fear.
Then, finally, I smirked. I flipped the gun in my hand and held it up, tilting it just enough for him to see inside.
Empty.
He swallowed hard.
"Relax," I said, sliding the gun back into its holster. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be bleeding on the floor."
Sergei let out a low chuckle. "You're a crazy bastard, Romano."
"Good to know," I replied. Then I walked away, letting my warning sink in.
Whoever was coming for me?
They just started a war.