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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DANTE

T he numbers flow across my computer screen.

DeMarco’s distribution networks in North Seattle show a seventeen percent increase in revenue this quarter—concerning but expected after Vincent’s elimination.

Gregory Whitman’s gambling enterprise has expanded into three new locations.

Sergio Castellano’s human trafficking operation remains stable despite border patrol issues.

Every data point represents lives corrupted or destroyed, arranged in neat columns that would look innocuous to the untrained eye. But I see them clearly for what they are: the infrastructure of evil, the skeleton supporting the Consortium’s diseased flesh.

I’m going to cut it all away before it spreads.

“He’s getting impatient,” Lorenzo says, sliding his phone across my office desk.

I turn from my monitor and pick up Lorenzo’s phone. Julian’s text glares back at me:

Where are the photos? I paid for my Golden One to be broken. Show me proof.

My eyes twitches. He’s treating Aurelia like a whore and I can’t fucking stand it.

But calculated precision has always served me better than emotional response. Three breaths. In. Out. Control.

My muscles relax and I return Lorenzo’s phone.

“Gideon could manipulate some images,” Lorenzo suggests, leaning back in the leather chair across from me. “Create something convincing enough to satisfy Julian.”

“No.” The word emerges too sharp, so I moderate my tone. “Julian would detect the deception. He’s impulsive but not an idiot.”

Lorenzo sighs. “Then what? He won’t wait forever.”

“Let him wait.” I stand, moving to the window to stare out at the green lawn. “We need more time.”

“I don’t think we have time. We need to put more pieces into motion.”

I clasp my hands behind my back, studying the perfect symmetry of the garden paths below.

“The Consortium’s strength flows from five main points: DeMarco’s drug distribution, Whitman’s gambling network, Castellano’s human trafficking, Smith’s money laundering, and Marlowe’s law enforcement corruption.

Six if you count the overarching power of the Harlow’s. ”

“Your point?”

“You do understand that dismantling it requires precision? Each support must be weakened simultaneously to prevent them from simply filling in the gaps. The trouble with the Consortium is that it’s more than points of power.

There are many secondary families eager for influence and willing to do whatever it takes to be at the top.

We can’t simply start hacking and hope for the best. Those secondary families are strong branches of support.

” I turn back to face him. “I’ve been working on this longer than you. ”

I still remember the exact moment everything changed for me.

I was sixteen. It was the day I watched my father put a cigarette out on my mother’s arm while Julian and I stood in silence.

It’s not like I hadn’t seen such a thing before, but that moment damaged something.

It was the final straw. I knew then what we were becoming. I knew I wanted to stop it.

Ever since, I’ve done what I can to create small weaknesses in each family’s operation. Those wounds never stay open for long, though. The Consortium is too good at bandaging them.

I sit back down at my desk and tap my computer screen. The screen displays financial records, shipping manifests, falsified licenses.

Lorenzo leans forward, eyes scanning the data. “So how long are you suggesting we continue to wait? I’m getting anxious.”

“DeMarco’s distribution relies on three key supply routes through Arizona.

I’ve bribed border officials to increase inspections when I give them specific dates, which will coincide with their largest shipments.

Whitman’s new casinos operate on licenses obtained through falsified paperwork—paperwork that will mysteriously find its way to legitimate authorities. When the time is right.”

I click to another set of documents. “Castellano’s trafficking operation depends on specific corrupt port officials. I’ve been compiling evidence against them for years. Smith’s money laundering through his hotel chain leaves a pattern that, when presented correctly, becomes impossible to ignore.”

“And the Marlowe’s?” Lorenzo asks.

“Victoria’s death created an opportunity.

Her sister, Olivia, lacks the same charm and connections.

Half the police department is ready to break ties, they simply need the right incentive.

” I close the files. “When I make these dominoes fall simultaneously, the Consortium will fragment. Infighting will ensure its collapse. But the timing must be precise, and I haven’t yet figured that part out yet. But I will.”

Lorenzo whistles low. “You’ve been busy.”

“Necessarily so.” I straighten a pen on my desk that’s shifted one degree out of alignment. “The Consortium isn’t merely a criminal organization; it’s a cancer that metastasizes through everything it touches.”

“Including Julian.”

My jaw tightens. “Yes.”

But can I save him?

I’ve asked myself this question countless times since awakening from near-death. Julian—my brother, my responsibility. He’s always been my responsibility, but I haven’t always been the best mentor.

The memories surface: Julian at six, crying after a particularly cruel beating our father gave our mother; Julian at twelve, standing between our mother and Lucian’s rage; Julian at fourteen, knuckles bloody from his first underground fight.

Each time, I provided less and less comfort and guidance to him. Not because I didn’t want to, but because my father’s pressures on me became greater. I had to pull back, observe Julian more than I intervened, because father threatened to start beating him if I didn’t.

“Stop coddling him, Adrian. He needs to grow some fucking balls! Unless you’d rather I just cut his off?”

He would have done it; there’s no doubt.

Out of necessity, I became more passive in Julian’s life. Yet, look at what that’s done to him.

“Julian possesses our father’s darkness.

” My voice remains steady despite the weight in my chest. “I failed him. I should have seen what was happening. Should have intervened more directly. But I don’t think it’s too late.

When the time is right to strike and I enact my plan, I want to get him out rather than leave him to crumble with the rest.”

“He’s insane,” Lorenzo counters. “You saw what he did to Aurelia.”

My jaw ticks. “Everyone makes mistakes. Mother is beyond salvation. The Consortium has consumed her completely. But Julian… there’s still something worth saving there. Once we collapse the Consortium’s structure, once we’ve severed the resources feeding his worst instincts, we can extract him.”

“And if he resists?”

“Then I’ve failed him completely. ”

Lorenzo studies me for a moment and then sighs. “What should I tell him about the photos?”

I consider our options, weighing variables and outcomes. “Tell him we’re taking things slow. Teasing her. More things to come.”

“That’s too vague.”

“It suggests progress without promising immediate evidence.” I press my fingertips together. “It buys us time, hopefully.”

Lorenzo nods, typing the message. “Speaking of Aurelia,” he says without looking up, “we need her on board. Given what they’ve done to her, she’ll want to help. Also”—he waves his phone—”if she was involved, we could’ve staged photos and have less to worry about.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then why keep her in the dark?”

My chest tightens. The memory of Aurelia’s face at breakfast—hurt, confused, angry—produces an uncomfortable pressure in my sternum. “She’s been through enough. She needs more time to recover.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Lorenzo says, giving me a disapproving stare as if he’s my father. He is older by a few years. “She’s stronger than you realize. We should tell her.”

“I’m aware of her strength.” More aware than he knows. For ten years, I watched Aurelia navigate the Consortium’s treacherous waters. I watched her bend without breaking, adapt without surrendering. It’s always been one of the qualities I most admired—most loved—about her.

Lorenzo finishes the text, then sets his phone down. “And while we’re on the topic of telling her the truth, when will you tell her about… your situation?”

The migraine that’s been threatening me all morning finally blooms behind my right eye. “Soon.”

“Soon. Define ‘soon.’”

“When the time is right.”

He sighs again, standing. “Just don’t wait too long. I don’t like seeing my cousin hurt.” After a pointed stare, he exits.

The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with thoughts I’ve spent years compartmentalizing. Thoughts of Aurelia.

For a decade, I maintained distance—emotional armor necessary for us both to survive.

Lucian would have destroyed anything I truly cared for.

He would have used her against me, just as he used our mother against Julian and I.

But if I positioned Aurelia as just a woman to warm my bed?

It kept Lucian from noticing her too deeply.

The cold calculation of it had seemed logical, necessary.

Until it wasn’t. Until I saw her with Julian and realized the price of my protection was losing her completely.

Would things be different now if I’d been honest with her then? If I’d shown her even a fraction of what I felt? Doubtful. She was always drawn to Julian’s fire, even as it threatened to consume her. I offered no comparable heat.

Now, however… now she’s seen the darker side of Julian’s flames. Now she understands what I’ve always kn own: that uncontrolled fire doesn’t warm—it destroys.

Do we have a chance? Could she possibly…

No. Focus requires clarity. Sentiment clouds judgment.

The mission remains: dismantle the Consortium, save Julian if possible, ensure Aurelia’s safety.

After that, she’ll be free to choose her own path.

A path likely leading away from me, away from the memories of a decade spent as a possession rather than a partner.

As it should be. Men like me don’t get happy endings.

I’ve hurt too many people to deserve it.

The migraine intensifies. Three more hours of work before I can justify a break. I return focus to my computer.

Three hours pass in a blur of spreadsheets. By late afternoon, the migraine has become a persistent jackhammer against my skull. I take two pills with water, noting clinically that it’s my third dose today. Excessive, but necessary under the circumstances.

When I finally allow myself a break, I find myself walking toward Aurelia’s room. The hallway stretches longer than usual. What exactly am I hoping to accomplish? Unclear. Perhaps I simply need to see her—confirmation that she’s real, that she’s here, that she’s safe.

Her door is ajar, so I approach silently, peering in. The room is empty. Where…

I smile to myself.

The library. Of course. During our decade together, it was always her sanctuary when the Consortium’s world became too suffocating. Or I’d find her outside on a balcony, painting.

Considering I haven’t yet bought her any art supplies, I’ll check the library first.

I find her there, curled in the window seat, sunlight setting her red hair aflame. She’s writing in her diary, the pen moving with quick, decisive strokes. One hand occasionally rises to touch the emerald necklace—my gift—that now rests against her throat.

I smile again as the sight produces an unfamiliar pressure in my chest. Seeing the necklace on her—the one I purchased after examining engagement rings for three hours, realizing the futility of such a gesture when she looked at me with nothing but politeness—creates a sensation I can’t categorize.

Pride? Satisfaction? Something deeper?

She looks up suddenly, catches me watching, and the warmth in her expression evaporates. The barriers rise—the walls I taught her to build through years of emotional distance.

I should speak and explain everything. I could speak about my plans, my regrets, the truth I’ve kept hidden for so long. But the words catch in my throat, tangled in years of restraint.

She snaps her diary shut. “What do you want, Dante ?” she asks, her voice like a winter storm.

Ten thousand words crowd my mind, demanding release. I want to tell her everything—how I’ve only ever tried to protect her, how I regret every moment of pain my actions caused her, how seeing her with my necklace creates a warmth I can’t explain.

How I’d thought of proposing, but realized a woman like her deserved a better life than I can provide. She deserves a better husband.

I want to tell her that she was never just an asset, never just something beautiful to show off.

That every touch, every kiss, every moment between us contained pieces of truth buried beneath layers of necessary deception.

That I’ve loved her since we were teenagers, quietly, hopelessly, from a distance I couldn’t bridge.

But those decade-old habits are hard to break. The words remain unspoken, sealed behind the walls I built to survive my father’s rule.

Without answering, I turn and walk away. Each step takes me further from what I want and closer to what must be done.