Chapter 4 - Chapter 4- What the Devil Saw

(Dante's POV)

🎧 Song: "Wicked Game" – Chris Isaak (Cigarettes After Sex cover)

Nightmares hit me like bullets.

Fast. Precise. Always straight to the heart.

Every night it's the same—blood, screams, that sound of bone breaking. The kind of sound that never leaves your head no matter how many cigarettes you burn through.

I sit up, hand pressed against my forehead. Another night without sleep.

My head's a war zone, and the ghosts always win.

Dad says we're close to the end of it—that all the years of waiting, of pretending, of swallowing the hate, are about to pay off. Revenge, he calls it. I call it surviving on poison.

I grab the lighter from my nightstand, flick it open, and light my cigarette. Smoke fills my lungs, sharp enough to remind me I'm still breathing. I don't know if that's a good thing anymore.

"Play nice," Dad had said earlier

Pretend. Smile. Sit across from the daughter of the man who killed my mother and act like I give a damn.

If I had my way, they'd both be gone already. Buried somewhere cold and forgotten.

The phone on the table vibrates. "Papà."

I picked it up. "Sì?"

His voice is steady, businesslike.

"Devo che tu vada al porto a prendere un pacco per me." (I need you to go to the docks and pick up a package for me.)

"Mandami la posizione." (Send the location.)

I take a drag, exhale through my teeth. "Spero che siano ancora aperti. È tardi." (Hope they're still open. It's late.)

He chuckles—the kind that sounds like smoke and power.

"Sanno che arrivi. Ho già chiamato gli altri." (They know you're coming. I already called the others.)

"Good," I say quietly. "Been a while since I saw those bastards."

I throw on my jacket, slip my gun into the waistband, and step out. The hall smells like whiskey and gun oil. Everything in this house does.

Outside, the night air is sharp against my skin. My bike waits under the streetlight, chrome glinting under the moon. I light another cigarette, kick the engine, and ride out.

⸻

The docks are half-dead this late.

A black car idles near the water, two men standing guard. One straightens when he sees me.

"Il figlio di Alejandro?" (Alejandro's son?)

I nod. "Dove sono gli altri?" (Where are the others?)

"In arrivo." (On their way.)

I lean against a crate, cigarette hanging from my lips, watching the waves slap against the shore. When the rest of the crew shows up, we load the box in silence. Business as usual.

One of them suggests stopping by Luz Roja before heading home.

The place belongs to my old man. 21 and up. The kind of club that smells like sin and money. Red lights everywhere, smoke curling through the air, bodies grinding like they've got something to prove.

I tell myself I'll only stay for a drink. But we all know that's a lie.

⸻

The moment I walk in, the bass hits me in the chest.

Heavy. Slow. Hypnotic.

People move like shadows drenched in red light. The air's thick with perfume and sweat, that familiar mix of danger and lust that always makes me feel alive.

The bouncer nods when he sees me. "Boss's son." I give him a look that says I don't want attention. He gets it.

I head straight for the VIP section, drop into a chair, and light another cigarette. The smoke coils between my fingers.

A few of the usual girls drift closer—painted lips, fake smiles, the kind that'll do anything if you say the right word. I'm half-listening, half-suffocating. I just want something quiet in my head.

That's when I see her.

Across the room.

At first, I think my mind's fucking with me. But then she moves—and the whole damn club blurs.

Elira.

She's not supposed to be here. The club's twenty-one-plus, and she barely looks eighteen. But there she is, standing under the red light like sin dressed in silk. Her hair's loose, falling down her back in soft waves. The same silver-brown eyes I saw at dinner. The same lips I wanted to shut up.

She's dancing with some guy—preppy, polished, probably thinks love songs mean something. His hands are on her waist, too low, too familiar.

I feel my jaw tighten. Tension coils through it until it aches.

Why the hell do I care?

I take a drag, slow and deep. The smoke burns like envy.

She laughs at something he says, tilts her head back. For a second, she looks free.

Too free.

The music shifts—low, slow, dirty. She moves with it like she was born for it, like the rhythm under her skin. Her dress clings, her eyes shimmer under the red light, and all I can think is that she shouldn't be here. Not in my world.

I should look away. I don't.

The guy's hand slides further down her back, and something in me snaps. Not loud—just a small, dangerous shift in the air around me.

I stub my cigarette out, lean back, watching her through the haze.

She doesn't see me at first. Her body's moving to the beat, lost in it, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. And then—like fate's playing a cruel joke—she looks up.

Straight at me.

For a heartbeat, the world goes quiet. The music, the laughter, the chaos—all of it fades.

Her silver-brown eyes lock with mine across the distance.

She freezes, just slightly, like her body recognizes something her mind doesn't.

I can't read what she's thinking, but I know what I feel.

Fire. Hatred. And something else I can't name.

The red light flickers between us. She blinks, looks away fast, pretending not to care.

But she felt it.

I know she did.

I smirk faintly, exhaling smoke through the side of my mouth.

So the hunter finally wandered into the devil's den.