Page 2 of Dante

As I tighten my grip around the handles, the front door swings open. In a flash, I spin on my heels and draw the pistol hanging in my waistband, training it perfectly where the newcomer would step in.

“I’m home,” a gentle voice comes first, followed by a picture of perfection entering the door.

A single glance at her pure beauty shatters my perception of reality. I’m awe-struck. Glued in place. I can’t lower my gun, but for the first time in ages, I feel like a monster for pointing it at this delicate little thing.

This angel.

“What the fuck?” she bellows, noticing me and my weapon. The grocery bags she cradled like a baby to her hip fall, and their contents spill across the floor. Her deep blue eyes flash with the panic and turmoil of what she stumbled into as she cowers against the wall.

“And who are you?” I tilt my head sideways, drinking in her adorable face, scrunched up in terror. Her long flowing river of golden hair, cascading down her shoulders, reaches a loosepoint above her mountainous tits in a tight crop top. And the immaculate curvature of her breasts, which narrow at the waist and expand once more into full, voluptuous hips squished into a pair of booty shorts a size too small.

“Baby, it’s going to be okay. Go to your room,” Emma cries out in panic. She’s waving the girl along, trying to get her to run.

“Fuck that. She’s not going anywhere,” I bark. Not after the feverish burn she left on my brow and the painful throb in my groin. “Who are you?” I repeat the question sternly this time, demanding an answer.

“She’s my daughter,” Luke shouts. “Please don’t hurt her. Do whatever you want to me, but let Natalie go.”

His words barely penetrate the thumping pulse in my ears.

2

NATALIE

Iknow him.

Living in a small town, I guess it isn’t surprising. He’s been at the bar I waitress at more than a few times, holding shady meetings with dubious folks who carry a bad reputation. Much like himself, I suppose. But I guess you don’t get a name like the Demon of Delta County by helping the homeless or rescuing kittens from trees.

And his presence in my house can only mean trouble.

“Please, Mr … Dante, put the gun down. Don’t hurt my baby,” Mom screeches. Tears roll down her cheeks, and she’s half slumped over, pretty much begging from the knee.

I’m still pinned to the wall, staring down the barrel of Dante’s gun. My heart’s thumping, and the waves of adrenaline coursing through my veins leave me lightheaded and on the verge of collapse.

Dante listens to her. His arm drops to his side, but his finger remains firmly on the trigger.

“Your daughter?” he asks, shrugging his massive shoulders. His other hand, pinching my father’s ring finger between a pair of pliers, releases and returns the tool into his pocket. “Didn’t know you had a child.”

“What do you want?” As hard as it is to say, I get the words out. If I can keep his attention on me, maybe it’ll stop him from doing whatever he came to do.

“Dear ole dad owes me a lot of money,” Dante says.

Why am I not surprised? I don’t blame Dad for taking money from Dante. He’s down on his luck, and he’s always done whatever he could to support our family.

“Leave her out of this. She does?—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Dante’s attention breaks away from me briefly as he looks over his shoulder at Dad. “I’m not talking to you, so wait your fucking turn.”

I’ve seen Dante’s aggression before, hurling insults and starting bar fights without a care in the world about the consequences. More than once, I caught myself chewing my lip in disbelief at my own twisted fantasies and curiosity the Demon roused in me. Even now, I can’t shake them. A stranger in our home, commanding the room as if he owns the damn place, with unequivocal ruthlessness.

What does that say about me? Managing a way to appreciate his cruelty, even when it’s directed at my parents.

“I can give you money.” I peel myself off the wall, sending a nervous hand into my bag. “It isn’t a lot. It’s what I got off tips from my shift, but you can take it.”

I grab the one-hundred and twelve dollars in various note denominations and hold it out to him.

“I don’t want your money.” Dante holsters his gun and chuckles coyly, as if I’m supposed to be in on whatever got him laughing.

“But it’s all we’ve got. Please, take it. I’ll make sure to have more next week. I didn’t?—”

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