Page 124 of Dirty Game
"Are you my family now?" he asks suddenly, in the middle of explaining why the blue car is faster than the red one. "Instead of Mama and Mikhail?"
I look at Varrick again, who's still watching us with that unfathomable expression.
"Do you want us to be?" I ask Dante.
"Yes." No hesitation. "Mama's family hurts. You don't hurt."
"Then yes," I tell him, my throat tight with emotion. "We're family."
He nods, satisfied, then yawns again. "Can I stay here? Mama's house is loud and scary. Mikhail yells a lot. And there are always men with guns who look at me funny."
"You're never going back there," Varrick says, and it's not a promise—it's a fact. "Never."
"Promise?" Dante's voice goes small, vulnerable in a way that breaks my heart.
"I promise."
Dante curls closer to me, clutching the wolf between us. "Will Mama be mad?"
"Yes," Varrick says honestly. "But that's not your problem anymore."
"Will she hurt more people?"
"No." The finality in Varrick's voice makes it clear—Sienna's campaign of terror is about to end. Permanently.
Within minutes, Dante is asleep, his small form warm against my injured body.
He makes little noises in his sleep, twitches that speak of bad dreams.
I run my fingers through his dark hair, feeling protective in a way I didn't know I could feel.
"He chose you," Varrick says quietly. "My son chose you."
"He's been waiting for someone to choose him back," I reply. "To save him."
"Like you were."
"Like we both were."
Varrick moves his chair closer, reaches out to touch his son's face with a gentleness that would surprise anyone who only knows him as the King of Vancouver’s underworld. "It won’t take long to figure out who he is to me. In a couple of weeks, all of my enemies will know. Not to mention, he’s a child. Anything could have happened with him coming up here by himself like that."
"She's losing control, desperate."
"She's dead." He says it simply, like commenting on the weather. "She just doesn't know it yet."
"What about Mikhail?"
"His death certificate is signed too."
I look down at Dante, sleeping so peacefully despite the chaos of his short life. "He'll need therapy. Real help. Not just...this."
"I know. I've already arranged it. The best child psychologist in the city, specializes in trauma." He pauses. "For both of you."
"I don't need?—"
"Rosalynn." His voice is gentle but firm. "They tortured you for two days. You need help processing that. We both do."
He's right. I know he's right. But admitting I need help feels like admitting weakness, and I've been weak enough already.
