Page 67 of Dangerous Men (Fortune City Mafia #1)

DANTE

There’s a stillness that hangs in the air before a storm. A nervous quiet, like nature itself is holding its breath.

I live for that moment. The anticipation of ruin.

I lean back against the scratchy fabric of the waiting-room chair and feel that anticipation brewing, heralding the coming storm. A storm that has been building for years.

Two photos sit on the table before me, one clipped from a newspaper several years past and one from the recent style section of a magazine.

The pictures show the same woman.

I pick up the newspaper clipping, giving it my full attention.

She’s younger, in this one, standing in front of a cheap folding table that’s piled high with sugary treats. She smiles at the camera a little awkwardly. Almost like she’s shy.

She’s flanked by two people. A pretty Asian woman on her right, with bright colored hair and a big, toothy grin. And a man on her left, his arm looped possessively around her waist,

The caption reads: Local business owners Jade and Sydney—pictured with her significant other, Chase—join many others in celebrating the success of Fortune City School District’s annual bake sale.

I run my finger over her name, my fingers smudging the ink.

Sydney.

The next picture is my favorite.

Her hair is longer. It’s a candid pic, and the photographer captured her mid-laugh. She looks beautiful. Elegant.

But I’m not looking at her, I’m looking at the man she’s pictured dancing with.

Mason Alexander Sterling.

The pain in my leg flares to an inferno as I stare at his image.

I haven’t seen him in years. Not since the bastard tried to walk away from my organization, taking three of my best assets with him. Not since one of them tried to kill me.

I barely made it out alive that night. And while I was gone, they took everything. My organization. My money. My power. My life’s work, blown to pieces by two gunshots.

They took everything . And it took years for me to crawl my way back up from the bottom and finally take back what’s mine.

They think they’ve won. They think they’ve buried me, left me and my business behind them. But you don’t leave my organization. There’s no retirement plan, no escape. You’re in it until you die.

The day Mason Sterling and his so-called brothers took off, he signed his death warrant.

But he’s been untouchable. Too powerful for me to take down, even with the weight of my organization building behind me.

And he’s never had a weakness, other than his fucking brothers. Never had something I could exploit.

Until now .

Mason Sterling and friend , the caption reads, at last evening’s Sterling Charity Banquet .

Friend .

The photographer who captured this image was good. Real good. They had a real talent for capturing the emotions behind the picture.

With Mason’s fingers gently touching her arm, his head tilted toward Sydney as they waltz across the dance floor, it’s impossible to miss the look in his eyes.

Mason Sterling is a man in love.

And I can’t wait to take it away from him.

I toss the magazine back onto the table and lean further back in my chair. My back twinges as I settle in, the pain flaring in my leg again. I ignore it.

A voice cuts through the quiet of the empty room. Patient visiting hours ended hours ago. “He’s awake.”

I glance across the room to Annika, standing rigid by the hospital room door. My Annika, the spitting image of her mother.

The newspaper clipping is still lying on my thigh, and I tap it, fingernail sharp against the figure standing next to Sterling’s woman. The woman with bright hair.

“Find this one,” I order.

She doesn’t answer when she takes the clipping from me, eyes scanning the woman in the image. But I know she’ll obey. Loyal until the very end, my Annika.

It hurts to stand. Everything hurts now. I lean heavily on my cane as I rise, letting the worst of the pain pass before I head to the hospital room.

The man laid out in the hospital bed is barely conscious. His face is still swollen from the beating, his skin mottled with angry purple and red bruises. I’ve seen his file, and I know that isn’t even the worst of it. He has three broken ribs, and a partially ruptured spleen that almost killed him.

But most importantly, he has a grudge. One I can use.

“Good evening, Mr. Levine.” I approach his bedside with smooth, deliberate steps, despite the pain. You learn to keep up the appearances. You learn to let the pain fuel you from the inside out.

Chase’s head lulls against the pillow as he looks toward me. His eyes narrow suspiciously. “Do I know you?”

“No. But you will.” I smile at him. “I have a proposition for you. One I think you’ll quite like.”

THE END