Page 36 of Dance of Deception

“Youkick mein your sleep.”

She shrugs. “Not my problem.”

Dante presses his fingers to his temples, breathing deeply. “You're going to kill me,” he murmurs. “Slowly. Painfully.”

Tempest beams. “Please. I’m a fuckingdelight.”

Dante stares at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he leans in, his voice dropping.

“Yes, you are,” he murmurs, his tone rough and warm all at once.

Tempest blinks, startled, a prosciutto slice halfway to her open mouth.

I can’t help but laugh.

That’s how it always goes with them: she pushes, teases, causes utter chaos, and just when she thinks she’s in control, Dante reminds her exactly how much she belongs to him.

The other door to the dining room suddenly swings open and I glance up as Nico walks in with Pop, the former holding two bottles of Barolo from the cellar.

Sixty-two years old, tanned as hell, and still handsome as fuck, Vito somehow always manages to walk the fine line between gangster chic and smooth Italian finesse. The guy dresses like a king—all Armani, all the time—but still has a little bit of the streets on him. The gold chain glinting against his chest with the top few buttons of his shirt undone. A classy, modern haircut that makes him look like a movie star but doesn’t quite cover the cauliflower ears of a man who spent his youth brawling for turf.

“The gang’s all here!” Vito grins, arms wide as he takes in the room.

He’s been saying that since we were kids.

Back then, it was when we piled into the living room for Saturday morning cartoons or he picked us up from school.Now, it’s when we gather at the family estate, our conversation about power struggles, alliances, and the empire we’ll inherit.

Bianca is the first to reach him. She wraps her arms around him tightly, and Vito plants a loud, exaggerated kiss on her forehead.

“My beautiful girl.” He cups her face, beaming before his brow furrows. “Look at you. You don’t eat anymore? You’re all bone!”

“Dad, I eat plenty,” Bianca sighs, smiling.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves her off. “Still mybellissima ballerina.”

His gaze shifts to me. His grin turns playful but sharp as he walks over. I stand, and the two of us embrace, my nose filling with the familiar scent of him: Italian aftershave, clean linen, and the lingering aroma of a cigar I’m betting he had earlier while listening to Sinatra.

“Remind me later,” he nods as we pull apart. “I need to talk to you about an opportunity we might want to jump on, fast.”

I cock a brow. “Yeah?”

“What kind of opportunity?” Nico adds as he joins us, rubbing his palm over his jawline.

Vito pulls closer to the two of us, lowering his voice. “Word has it, Andrei Mushkin got one of those summons…” He clears his throat, his voice lowering even more. “From those Black Court psychos.”

My brow knits, but Nico and I don’t even look at each other.

That’s just how it is.

The Black Court might be infamous throughout the underworld, but no one—no one—knows who we, the Shadow Kings, really are. Not even our families.

We don’t talk about what happens there once we leave. Outside those walls, if The Bull and I were to sit down in a social or business situation—which we frequently do—we address each other with our real names. Just as in Court, we only address each other using our Shadow names.

“Oh yeah?” I say evenly.

Pop nods. “Yeah. Word is, Mushkin’s been missing the last few days.”

Nico snorts. “I dunno, Dad. I think this whole black court thing is just a mafia world ghost story.”

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