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Chapter Thirty: Dante

T he Bentleys…weren’t what I expected.

Richard towered over me, his stature imposing yet softened by the silver streaks running through his well-kept hair. He offered a firm handshake that spoke volumes of his character—strong, assured, but not without warmth.

“Good to see you, Dante,” Richard said with a nod. “Thank you for having us.”

“Of course,” I responded, stepping aside to let them into the lion’s den.

Kristin floated in behind her husband, her presence like a gentle wave washing over the room. Her eyes, a calm harbor, met mine with genuine kindness. “It’s a beautiful home you have,” she commented, her voice laced with sincerity.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bentley. I hope you’ll find it comfortable.”

As pleasantries gave way to the casual hum of conversation, Emily walked in from the kitchen.

Without Jade.

Emily wasn’t Jade, but I could clearly see the resemblance in their ice blue eyes and the color of her hair. Her smile was infectious, brightening the space as if the sun itself had walked in. She was followed closely by Tom, his demeanor relaxed, an easygoing counterpoint to Emily’s vibrancy. His skeptical gaze lingered on me just a beat too long, sizing me up like one of his audience members back in Nashville.

“Emily, Tom, good to see you both,” I greeted them, offering a handshake to Tom and a polite nod to Emily.

“Likewise, Dante,” Tom replied.

After we were done with introductions, we moved to the living room.

Laughter flirted with the clink of fine china and the soft murmur of jazz from the corner record player, casting a warm spell over my penthouse’s living room. I leaned against the mantle, nursing a tumbler of whiskey as Richard Bentley approached, his gaze sweeping appreciatively over the carefully curated art on the walls.

“Your collection is remarkable, Dante,” Richard said, gesturing to an abstract painting rich with dark, brooding colors. “Feels like there’s a story behind each piece.”

“Thanks, Richard.” I tilted my head, considering the canvas. “Art’s always been a refuge for me.”

Kristin Bentley, elegant as ever, joined our little circle, her eyes reflecting the soft light of dawn spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. “And what about your own story, Dante? You mentioned you grew up in Little Italy?”

“Yeah, not that fun from here,” I replied, a wistful smile dancing briefly on my lips. “My childhood was steeped in tradition—family dinners, Sunday mass, and the kind of loyalty that runs deeper than blood.”

Jade was talking to her siblings, undoubtedly letting her parents size me up. It wasn’t too bad. I was a little nervous, but I thought I was doing well. They seemed to like me enough.

But then, amid the camaraderie, a sharp buzz cut through the conviviality. My hand tightened imperceptibly around my glass. The doorman. I could ignore it, let the moment linger undisturbed. But family—family was not so easily dismissed. I excused myself with a curt nod and strode toward the intercom.

And no one tried to buzz into my apartment unless they were family.

“Mr. Moretti?” came the doorman’s voice, a hint of urgency threading his words. “Your brother, Marco, is here.”

I hesitated, every instinct honed by years of leadership in the Moretti crime syndicate screaming to keep control of the situation. Marco was a tempest—charismatic but unpredictable, and his presence would shatter the fragile peace of this gathering.

“Let him up,” I said finally, pushing down the knot of tension in my gut. Returning to my guests, I plastered on a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. The warmth of the room had dimmed ever so slightly, the anticipation of Marco’s arrival hanging like a thick curtain, waiting to be drawn.

The smile faltered just slightly as I caught Jade’s questioning glance.

“Family matters,” I said by way of explanation, and her eyes softened with understanding—too much understanding.

When Marco burst into the room, the shift was immediate. The air seemed to get denser, the edges of the morning light sharpening like knives against the walls. He was a storm in human form, his energy clashing with the serene scene before him.

“Good morning! I didn’t know you had guests.” Marco announced with a grin that could disarm or terrify, depending on who you were. He was all charm, dressed in jeans that cost more than some people’s rent and a leather jacket that did nothing to hide the coiled strength beneath.

“Marco,” I greeted, keeping my tone level. His eyes, so much like mine yet filled with an untamed spark, flicked towards me. There was something there—a question, a challenge. I ignored it for now.

“Who’s this?” Tom asked, tipping his head towards my brother. The skepticism in his tone was barely hidden, but Marco just laughed it off.

“Marco Moretti, at your service.” He gave an exaggerated bow, and I could almost hear the room holding its breath.

“Kristin, Richard, this is my brother,” I said, the words tasting like ash. A necessary introduction, though every fiber of me rebelled at pulling Marco into this orbit.

“Charmed,” Marco said, offering Kristin a hand that she took tentatively. I watched, my guard up, waiting for the slip—the moment Marco would reveal the razor edge beneath his veneer.

“Quite the family resemblance,” Richard observed, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. But even he couldn’t mask the flicker of unease that crossed his features.

“Thanks,” Marco replied, his grin not reaching his eyes. “We try our best.”

“Marco has quite the knack for making an entrance,” I found myself saying, attempting to keep the mood light despite the silent alarm bells ringing in my head.

“Ah, well, you know how it is; can’t let my big brother have all the fun,” Marco quipped back with a wink.

He turned then, the playfulness melting away as he addressed me directly, his tone dropping a few degrees. “Dante, we need to talk. Dad sent me—he wants us at the house. Today.”

“Is something wrong?” The question escaped me before I could stop it, though I knew better than to expect an easy answer.

“Family business,” Marco said with a shrug that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know how it is. He’s expecting us in Little Italy as soon as possible.”

I nodded, the weight of our father’s summons settling over me like a winter chill. Whatever Enzo Moretti wanted, it wouldn’t be trivial—and it wouldn’t wait.

Kristin Bentley’s face lit up with genuine pleasure as she clapped her hands together, the delicate pearls at her wrist catching the light.

“Oh, a family gathering! How wonderful!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “I definitely want to spend more time with my daughter’s new family.”

The atmosphere was thick with the mingled scents of fresh coffee and warm pastries from the kitchen, an undercurrent of tension from Marco’s words moments ago now seemingly washed away by Kristin’s enthusiasm. I could feel the corners of my mouth twitching upward, a rare smile threatening to break through my usually composed facade.

Marco leaned back against the plush sofa, his gaze sweeping the room like he owned it—which, given our family’s influence in this city, wasn’t too far from the truth. He caught my eye, mischief glinting in his own, and then turned to Kristin with a grin.

“Yeah, you must be so excited to be grandparents,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of something I couldn’t quite place.

My reaction was instinctual—a brother’s reflex honed over years of dealing with Marco’s impulsive outbursts. My fist connected lightly with his arm, a silent reprimand. “Watch it, Marco,” I muttered, though the damage was already done.

“They didn’t know?” Marco said, sounding genuinely contrite.

“You’re such an asshole.”

Kristin blinked. “Wait. What?”

Everyone’s attention shifted to Jade, whose cheeks had taken on a rosy hue that matched the bloom of the winter dawn. She clasped her hands in front of her, the gesture both protective and proud as she met the collective gaze of our small assembly.

“Yeah,” Jade said, her gaze cast downwards. “Yeah, so. Surprise. I’m pregnant.”