Chapter 2 - Chapter 2 - The Enemy's Daughter

(Dante's POV)

🎧 "Play with Fire" – Sam Tinnesz

The basement smelled like blood and cheap whiskey—my father's version of cologne.

He was laughing when I walked in, knuckles split, shirt half unbuttoned, eyes glinting with that familiar madness. The guy tied to the chair wasn't laughing, though. His breathing came out in wet, broken sounds. One of his eyes was swollen shut. The other was begging.

"How much did he pay you to infiltrate my gang, huh?" my father snarled, his fist connecting with the man's jaw again. "Was it worth it?"

The man coughed, spitting blood, mumbling something that sounded like "I swear…" before another hit cut him off.

I leaned against the wall, cigarette between my fingers, smoke curling through the dim light. My boots were slick with something I didn't bother to check.

"You're wasting time," I muttered. "He's done talking."

My father turned, grinning at me—blood on his teeth, pride in his eyes. "You get that impatience from me, boy."

"Guess I also got your temper."

He chuckled low, knuckles cracking as he delivered one last blow. The sound was sickening. Wet. Final.

I watched, detached. Violence stopped shaking me a long time ago.

When he was done, he wiped his hands on a towel and reached for his phone. "Alejandro," he said, voice shifting into something smooth, almost charming. "Yeah, I'll be there soon. Bring your daughter, hmm? Can't wait to meet her."

The sweetness in his tone made my skin crawl. He hung up and tossed the towel aside, blood dripping down his wrist. "Dinner tonight," he said to me. "With Isabella and her girl. Wear something that doesn't make you look like a criminal."

"Why?" I flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under my boot. "You want to play house with the woman whose husband destroyed ours?"

His smile faded. "Watch your mouth."

"I'm just saying it how it is."

He stepped closer, eyes cold. "You'll go. You'll smile. You'll make her daughter feel comfortable. And you'll remember what I told you—the debt always gets paid."

So that was it. Isabella's husband. The man who killed my mother. Now his widow was marrying into the same family she'd helped destroy.

And her daughter? Collateral damage.

"Fine," I muttered, walking past him. "But I'm not pretending to like them."

As I reached the stairs, his voice followed me. "Make sure to look good, son. Hate looks better when it's well-dressed."

Ciel Rouge was exactly the kind of place I hated—velvet seats, golden light, too many smiles that cost too much to be real.

They arrived late. I was halfway through a glass of whiskey when the hostess brought them in. Isabella was radiant, glowing in that desperate way only women in love could. My father stood to greet her, all charm and teeth.

Then my gaze landed on her.

Elira.

She looked too soft for this world. Too… untouched. Her brown hair fell in lazy curls, silver-brown eyes darting nervously around the room. The black dress she wore hugged her in all the right places, but she didn't wear it to impress—she wore it like she'd been told to.

Pretty, I thought. Too pretty.

And that was a problem.

Because I already hated her.

The daughter of the man who ruined my family—sitting there across from me, pretending she belonged. Pretending she didn't have blood on her last name.

"Dante," my father said, his tone sharp. "Say hello."

I looked her dead in the eye. "Hi."

She blinked, caught off guard, then muttered back, "Hi."

That was it. Simple. But something in the way she said it made me clench my jaw. Like she wasn't scared. Like she was trying to understand me.

Dinner dragged on. My father and Isabella talked about the future, about second chances, about blending families. I tuned most of it out, focusing on the slow swirl of whiskey in my glass.

Every so often, I caught her watching me. Curious. Confused. Like she couldn't figure out if I was dangerous or just rude.

I decided to make sure she knew it was both.

When her mother asked about my studies, I didn't bother sugarcoating it. "Business. Nothing special."

Her mother smiled. "That's impressive."

"Not really."

My father shot me a look that said behave. I ignored it.

I was halfway through dessert when my phone buzzed—one of my girls, texting something obscene. I smirked. Better company awaited me, and yet, for some reason, I couldn't stop watching the way Elira's hands fidgeted under the table, the way she bit her lip when she thought no one noticed.

It irritated me. Everything about her did.

When the check finally came, I stood before the waiter even reached the table. "We done here?"

My father's glare could've set me on fire. "Sit down, Dante."

But I didn't. I just gave Elira one last look—cold, deliberate. She held my gaze for a second too long, and that was all it took for something dark to flicker in me.

Not attraction. Not yet. Something worse.

Curiosity.

Later that night, after I'd gone home and burned off my frustration in someone else's bed, I found myself scrolling through my phone.

Her name came easily—Elira. My friend had pulled her number from her mom's socials.

I stared at the screen for a long time before typing the words.

Next time, try not to stare so much.

— D.

Petty. Cruel. Exactly what I wanted.

Because if she was going to be in my life now—if she was going to play the part of the innocent daughter in a story built on lies—then she might as well learn what kind of monster she'd inherited.

And if she ever found out what her father did to my mother…

She'd understand why I could never stop hating her.

Even if part of me already wanted to.