The Attack
Dante POV
Dante paced.
Back and forth, back and forth.
Ten steps to the wall, and then ten steps back to the waiting room chair where he had been sitting. When nothing else could be done—when he could do nothing else—he paced.
The hospital waiting room was too quiet. A fucking echo of silence mocking him. A half a dozen pairs of eyes watched him.
A caged animal.
That’s how he felt.
Wild.
Crazed.
Enraged.
His daughter—his blood—had damn near taken her own life. Downed two bottles of wine, and opened her wrist up like a flayed fish. She’d used a blade she popped out of a disposable razor.
Pink-stained water coming out from beneath the bathroom door had alerted him. His fears continued rising, and his calls to her went unheard. His fists beat hard against the door until bruises formed and his bones ached.
The memories were too fresh.
He suspected it would always feel that way.
Now, though, they only pissed him off.
The one question that seemed to be his constant companion since he had pulled his daughter from the bloodstained bathtub was … why?
But the very second his mind posed the question, his black, bleeding heart already had an answer. One that was all too obvious. One that only served to enflame his growing rage even more.
Cross Donati.
How could this not be because of him? All the bad choices made and wrong roads traveled in Catherine’s life seemed to lead straight back to that young man. Like a habit she couldn’t kick, Catherine kept going back to Cross regardless of how badly she ended up hurt in the process.
Just two weeks earlier, something had happened again between the two. Not that Dante was entirely sure what had happened, but he knew something did. Catherine showed up on their doorstep with a bag in hand, tears in her eyes, and nothing else. She wouldn’t talk when they pressed for details or reasons. She stayed shut away from them in her old room—avoiding.
The spiral downward had been obvious. She got worse and worse emotionally until … tonight.
So, of course it was Cross.
It was always Cross.
That fucking—
“Son.”
Dante spun on his heels to face his father. Antony’s old eyes held nothing but sympathy and compassion. No pity—Antony Marcello pitied no one when he hated pity himself. Dante wished it helped on some level to soothe the rage festering inside as he looked at his father, but it really didn’t. If anything, the rage festered up to his heart, and grew more. It only got wider, and bigger.
Why?
Because of every person in that waiting room. It was not just for Catherine’s pain that had finally spilled over. It was not only for his wife’s—and his own—pain. This pain had an echo. A reverberation of pain that continued on to each person it touched in their family.
All of them hurt for this.
So, he let that rage fester.
He wanted it to grow.
Nothing else felt right.
“You should sit,” Antony told him. “Take a moment to rest while you can. I don’t think you will find much time to do any of that in the coming days.”
Dante shook his head. “No, I’m fine, Papa.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I am.”
“Son—”
“Don’t,” Dante interjected quietly.
For once, he needed his father to let something go. He needed Antony to let him lie about this. To let him hide his feelings. He desperately needed his father not to push him right then.
Antony seemed to hear Dante’s unspoken request. His father nodded once, and then clapped him on the shoulder.
“I’m going to take your mother home,” Antony said. “She does need to rest whether she wants to admit it or not.”
“No worries,” Dante replied. “I’ll give you a call when Catherine can have visitors or something. Or, if there’s any updates.”
“Thank you, son.” Antony frowned. “And do try to rest, Dante. You do need it, too.”
No, he needed violence.
Retribution.
Spilled blood …
He needed to get his rage out of his system, and only one person truly deserved it.
Still, he said, “Sure, Papa.”
One more clap to Dante’s shoulder, and his father was gone. Dante made sure to say a quick goodbye to his mother, too.
Catrina had fallen asleep on a chair while they waited for the final word that Catherine had been transferred upstairs. A place not meant for his daughter, except she needed it now.
Dante used his jacket to cover his wife, and brushed her stray red curls out of her face. For now, she slept peacefully, and without worry. He knew that would only last for as long as she kept her eyes closed, and stayed in dreamland. He hated that for his wife—hated knowing that she was feeling a kind of pain he could not help.
All over again, his rage swelled.
Only this time, there was no holding it back. There was no quelling it for a time until he could deal with it later.
It needed soothing now.
With one last look at his wife, Dante headed out of the waiting room. He was outside of the hospital, and halfway across the parking lot before someone finally caught up to him.
Lucian.
“Dante, wait.”
He unlocked his Mercedes, and jumped in. Lucian slid into the passenger seat without a word. He didn’t even look at his brother as they pulled out of the lot fast enough to make the tires squeal against the asphalt.
“I’m going to kill him,” Dante finally said.
He didn’t say who.
His brother didn’t need him to.
Their families did not hide things from each other.
“You cannot kill Cross Donati, Dante.”
“Can’t and shouldn’t are two very different things, Lucian.”
“Won’t, then. You won’t kill him,” Lucian said. “I’ll make sure of it. For you, though, not for him.”
“Put the gun away,” Lucian said from behind Dante.
Dante knocked on the penthouse door again instead. Footsteps echoed from behind the wood.
“Dante, do not do something you will—”
Cross opened the penthouse door, and Dante had already cocked back his arm, and then let the gun smash into the man’s face. Being pistol whipped was one thing—being beat with a gun like it was a man’s fist was quite another.
Split lip.
Bruised face.
Cross on the floor.
That’s what Dante wanted.
The sight of the blood already coming from Cross’s mouth and nose was good, but not quite good enough. Cross’s shouts echoed, but he didn’t fight back.
Dante just kept going.
Another hit with the gun.
A kick to the ribs, and then another.
More fists.
More kicks.
“Fuck,” Cross grunted, blood staining white teeth.
Cross tried to get away by turning to his side, and Dante reared back and kicked him in the face. Blood arched, and eyes rolled.
That might have been a bit much.
It still felt damn good to Dante.
“Dante, relax,” Lucian growled.
“Fuck off, Lucian. You relax. Let it be your daughter, and you fucking relax.”
“You can’t kill—”
“I can do whatever the hell I want to, actually.”
“You’re not above retribution for this just because you are a boss,” Lucian snarled.
Cross rolled to his back again, and Dante took great satisfaction in the sound of the man struggling to breathe. Blood spatters colored his lips. Bruises marred his face. He clutched at his ribs like they hurt, too.
Good.
Hurt like she does.
Dante leaned over Cross with his gun pointed at the man’s face as Cross choked on blood.
He could only laugh.
The arrogant little shit could be knocked down.
Hard to believe.
“All right, Dante, you made your point,” Lucian said. “Let’s go.”
Dante never looked away from Cross, and actually, grabbed his throat to keep him staring back. He had shit to say, and Cross needed to hear it.
He needed to fucking heed it.
“Stay the fuck away from my daughter from here on out,” Dante said while his molars ached from clenching so hard. “Don’t you ever even breathe in her direction again, Cross. Stay far the hell away. You come near me or mine again, and I will ruin you and yours. This city will crumble from what I will do to your family. In fact, make it easy on all of us and get the hell out of this state. Understood?”
Cross blinked.
Pain stared back at Dante.
It was not the same kind of pain Catherine had to be feeling, but it would do.
For now …
“Understood?” Dante asked firmer.
“Yeah,” Cross croaked.
Dante could have let him go with that said, but instead, he shifted his aim, and fired. The bullet tore through the top of Cross’s shoulder. More blood spilled instantly. “So you’ll have something to keep from this meeting. A reminder, if you will. A gift.”
“Dante,” Lucian hissed.
He stood, and left the penthouse, and Cross.
Let him fucking die there for all I care.
Lucian followed. “Now what, Dante? What will you do when his father wants someone to answer for what you did tonight?”
Dante said nothing.
He now had nothing to say.