Page 56 of Ruthless Desire

Oh, he'll pay for his hubris. With blood and bone and the dying screams of everything he holds dear. No one crosses Dante Corleone and lives to tell the tale.

"Show me," I command, my voice a lash of icy venom.

Marco leads us deeper into the warehouse, past towering stacks of crates and hulking machinery. The air is thick with the stench of motor oil and stale cigarette smoke, underlaid with a whiff of something sharper. Cordite, or the ferric tang of drying blood.

We reach a small, dingy office tucked away in the farthest corner, little more than a glorified closet. Marco fishes a key from his pocket and unlocks the door with a rusty screech of hinges.

Inside, bathed in the sickly glow of a flickering fluorescent light, is a man. No, not a man—the pathetic shell of one, trussed to a chair like a Christmas goose. His head lolls on his chest, greasy strands of hair obscuring his battered face.

"This is Sal," Marco says, his voice flat with disdain. "One of Corsini's inner circle. We caught the rat bastard skimming product down by the docks."

I step closer, the reek of terror and piss hitting me like a physical blow. Sal raises his head as I approach, his eyes glassy and unfocused. One socket is a swollen mess of purples and reds, the flesh puffed and distended like an overripe plum.

"Dio," he slurs through split, bloody lips. "Mercy. Please. I got a family, a kid on the way."

I crouch down until we're eye to ruined eye. "You should have thought of that before you decided to stick your grimy hands in my pockets." My voice is a low purr, almost gentle. "You know what they say, Sal. Thieves get what's coming to them."

I straighten languidly, smoothing the lapels of my suit jacket. "Marco, see to it that our friend here remembers his manners in the future. A few fingers should suffice." I give Sal a smile that's all teeth and malice. "For now."

Sal whimpers as Marco looms over him, meaty fists clenched in anticipation. But I'm already turning away, my mind churning with dark intent.

Luca Corsini is a dead man. He just doesn't know it yet. But he will. Oh, how he will.

First, I'll take his business, dismantle his empire brick by bloody brick. I'll pick off his lieutenants and foot soldiers like ducks in a shotgun gallery until he's left utterly alone, a king without a kingdom.

And then, when he's broken and beaten, when he's lost everything that ever mattered to him? I'll take his life, slowly, intimately, savoring every last gurgling scream. I'll carve my name into his still-beating heart and send it to his mother on a bed of rose petals.

The vindictive fantasy brings a twisted smile to my lips as I stalk out of the warehouse, Alonzo on my heels. Yes, I'll destroy Luca Corsini for his arrogance, his presumption. But more than that, I'll annihilate him for daring to covet what's mine.

The drive back to Shadowcrest is silent, the tension in the car thick as tar. My mind is a storm of dark thoughts, the plans for Luca Corsini's demise churning with relentless fury. But beneath it all, a different kind of unease gnaws at me—a gnawing, insidious doubt about Natalie.

As we pull into the long, winding drive of the mansion, the oppressive weight of uncertainty settles heavier on my shoulders. I need to know where her true loyalties lie. I need to break through her carefully constructed facade and see the raw truth beneath.

Stepping into the grand foyer, I pause, the sounds of the mansion washing over me. The distant hum of staff going about their duties, the soft strains of classical music wafting from the music room. But it's the faint, melodic laughter that draws me like a moth to flame.

Following the sound, I find Natalie in the parlor, the puppy at her feet. She's kneeling, her slender fingers entwined in the pup's fur, a genuine smile curving her lips. The sight sends a jolt through me, a mix of possessive pride and something deeper, more dangerous.

"Natalie," I say, my voice cutting through the moment like a blade.

She looks up, her eyes widening slightly before she schools her expression into one of polite interest. "Dante. You're back."

I step into the room, my presence filling the space. "I see you've made a friend."

Her gaze flickers to the puppy, then back to me. "He's wonderful. Thank you again, Dante. Truly."

I nod, crossing the room to stand before her. "Enjoy it, Natalie. This life, this privilege. Remember that it's mine to give and take away."

Her jaw tightens, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. "I haven't forgotten."

"Good," I murmur, reaching down to stroke the pup's head. "Now, come with me. We need to talk."

In the privacy of my study, the air between us is thick with tension. Natalie stands before me, her posture stiff, her eyes wary. I lean against my desk, studying her with a predator's gaze.

"Tell me, Natalie," I begin, my voice deceptively soft. "Do you ever think about leaving? About running away from this life, from me?"

Her eyes flash with something—fear, defiance, hope?—before she looks away. "No," she whispers. "I know what happens to those who cross you, Dante."

I step closer, invading her space. "Do you really? Or is this all just a game to you? A means to an end?"