Page 14 of The Dante (Those (Damn!) Texas Dantes #1)

SAM MIRABELLA sat in the cold, sterile room, his hands fidgeting in his lap, the scent of burnt coffee and sweat clinging to the air.

The fluorescent light overhead flickered, casting harsh shadows across the scarred metal table.

It was his second time here in as many weeks, and each visit left him feeling more like a rat in a maze with noexit.

Agent Reed leaned back in his chair, his expression carefully guarded—gauged, maybe even quietly predatory.

There was no impatience, no irritation, just a cold, waiting kind of stillness that made Sam’s skin itch.

It was the look of a man who already knew the outcome and was just biding his time before the inevitable .

The younger one, Foster, sat forward, spinning a pen between his fingers. It was the same nervous habit Sam had seen in every one of these meetings. He watched Sam like a man waiting for a tell in a high-stakes pokergame.

“You’re gonna need to do better than this,” Reed said, finally breaking the silence. He flipped open a file, thumbing through pages like he already knew the contents by heart. “Your last tip was a dead end. Smoke and mirrors. We need something solid.”

Sam licked his lips, his throat dry as dust. His fingers twitched, craving the feel of a cigarette between them, the bitter bite of nicotine to steady his nerves.

But there were no cigarettes here—just the cold, stale air of the interrogation room and the unrelenting stares of the two agents across from him.

“I told you what I know. You don’t get close to Titus Dante unless he wants you close. ”

Foster snorted. “And yet, you let your daughter crawl right into his bed.”

Sam stiffened, heat flashing through his veins as his shoulders locked up.

His gut twisted—not just with anxiety, but with anger.

How dare they? His daughter wasn’t some pawn they could use, some bargaining chip to be thrown onto the table.

His fingers twitched again, restless and unsettled, but all he had was the cold metal table pressing against hisarms.

He leaned forward, his voice a low growl. “Jazz doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

Reed arched a brow, as though he was amused by Sam’s sudden backbone. “Doesn’t she?” He closed the file and steepled his fingers. “She’s his wife. That means access. Pillow talk. Business conversations she shouldn’t overhear but probably does.”

“She’s not—” Sam shook his head, his jaw tightening. His hands closed into fists on the table, his frustration roiling just beneath the surface. “She doesn’t know anything.”

His voice came out more piercing than he intended, but damn it, they were talking about his daughter like she was some dense tool to be played.

The thought made his blood boil, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Jazz was smart, but she wasn’t involved in this—not in the way they were implying.

He forced himself to swallow past the dryness in his throat, but the anger lingered, aslow, simmering heat beneath hisribs.

Foster leaned in, lowering his voice like he was offering a favor instead of a trap.

His lips curved into something that almost resembled sympathy, but his eyes held none of it.

The deliberate softness in his tone sent a slow wave of unease crawling through Sam.

It was the voice of a man who had dangled bait before, who had seen desperate men squirm and take the hook without realizing they were already caught. “You don’t know that for sure, do you?”

Sam stayed silent, his fingers tapping against the table in a restless rhythm, ahabit that never helped but always surfaced when he felt cornered.

He forced himself to stop, pressing his palms flat against the cold metal, but the tension remained, becoming ever tighter in his chest. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, the pressure of their stares suffocating.

He needed to think. Needed a way out. But the Feds were closing in, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t see an escape route.

Reed sighed, like he was tired of playing nice. “Here’s the problem, Mirabella. You’re a nobody. Adebt-ridden gambler who got lucky enough to latch onto the Dante name—until you outlived your usefulness. You want out? Fine. But we need something real.”

“I—” Sam hesitated, his mouth going dry.

He had nothing. Nothing they didn’t already know.

He’d tried to feed them scraps, hoping it’d be enough to take Dante down, but they weren’t biting.

And now, with their expectant stares pinning him in place, he felt his own uselessness settling like lead in his gut.

His mind scrambled for something—anything—that might get them off his back, but all he found were dead ends and regret.

And fear.

A cold sweat broke out as another thought slithered into his mind, more terrifying than the Feds across from him. What if Titus already knew? What if The Dante had people watching him, waiting for a misstep?

His gut twisted violently, bile rising in his throat.

If The Dante found out— when he found out—there wouldn’t be a deal, no negotiation.

There’d be consequences. Final ones. Sam’s breath hitched, but he forced his face to stay neutral, swallowing the terror clawing up his throat.

He was trapped, boxed in on all sides, with no way to play this hand without losing everything.

Reed gave him a long, measured look before delivering the killing blow, the moment landing like the turn of a final card in a game Sam had already lost. It wasn’t just a bad hand—it was the end of the game, and he had no chips left toplay.

“Titus Dante is untouchable—unless we flip someone close to him. Someone he trusts.” He let the words settle, let Sam chew on them. “Your daughter, now… she’s in deep.”

Sam’s pulse kicked up, and his throat went tight. “She’s got nothing to do with this,” he repeated, but the words felt weaker this time, like he was trying to convince himself.

His mind raced, his thoughts turning dark.

If the Feds got their hands on Jazz, if they backed her into a corner, what would The Dante do?

He wasn’t the type to take betrayal lightly, even if Jazz had no part in it.

He’d see her as a liability. Aweak link.

And weak links didn’t last long in his world.

The thought sent a bolt of panic through Sam’s chest. He had seen firsthand what happened to people who crossed Titus Dante—loyalty didn’t buy mercy, and love didn’t grant immunity.

If Jazz got tangled up in this, there was no telling how far Dante would go to protect himself.

Would he turn on her? Would he cut her loose to save his own skin?

Abitter wave of nausea rolled through Sam’s gut.

He had done a lot of terrible things in his life, made mistakes he couldn’t undo, but letting his daughter walk blind into Dante’s wrath?

That was something he couldn’t livewith.

Reed leaned forward. “Look, we’re not asking her to wear a wire or testify in court. We just need a conversation. Alittle pressure. She’s smart—she knows what’s going on. And if she’s got any sense, she won’t go down with him when this all collapses around them.”

Sam’s stomach twisted. “Jazz won’t turn on him,” he said, but his voice lacked certainty.

Reed shrugged. “Then maybe she needs a wake-up call.” He tapped the file with his index finger. “We bring her in for questioning. Make her see the bigger picture. Maybe she’ll cooperate. Maybe she won’t. But either way, it sends a message to Dante that we’re circling.”

Sam gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. He wanted to say no. Wanted to stand up and tell them to leave his daughter the hell out of this. But his mouth stayed shut, the stress of his own desperation crushinghim.

If he refused, what then? They’d let him rot. They’d let The Dante take him apart, piece by piece, while Jazz remained exactly where she was—trapped in a world Sam had put her in. Maybe the Feds were right. Maybe she needed to see just how bad this was going toget.

“Mirabella.” Reed’s voice was low, patient. “This is happening. Whether you help or not, we’re pulling her in. The only choice you have is how she sees it—whether she walks in thinking she has a way out, or believing she’s already too far gone.”

Sam froze, his breath shaking.

He didn’t want this.

Didn’t want to be the father who sat back and let his daughter get dragged into a mess he’d made.

But that’s exactly what was happening, and the realization carved a raw, gaping hole in his chest. Jazz had no idea what she was walking into.

She was intelligent, but she wasn’t ruthless.

Not like Titus. Not like these agents who saw her as nothing more than leverage.

If they backed her into a corner, if Dante so much as suspected her loyalty wavered, he wouldn’t hesitate to cut her loose—or worse. Sam clenched his fists under the table, his nails digging into his palms. He had spent his life making bad choices, but this? This was the worst of themall.

But he also wasn’t strong enough to stopit.

He nodded. Just once. His throat tightened, aslow constriction that made swallowing feel impossible. His stomach dropped, ahollow ache settling in his gut, knowing that with that single motion, he’d just sealed something he could never takeback.

Reed’s smile was cooly satisfied.

“Good choice.”

Sam felt sick.

PREGNANT!

Oh, dear Lord, she was pregnant.

Jazz stared at the test stick in her trembling hand, her pulse hammering in her ears.

The bold pink plus sign stared back at her, unyielding, undeniable.

She had half a mind to shake it, as if that would change the result.

But no amount of second-guessing or wishful thinking was going to make the truth disappear.

A baby.

She was carrying Titus Dante’s child.