“Because in this world, names carry influence. Reputation. Dante isn’t just a last name—it’s a statement. It means being in charge, victory, an empire that doesn’t crumble. My father built the foundation, but I’m the one who fortified it, expanded it. Imake the decisions no one else will. When people hear my name, they know exactly what it means—I’m the one who decides who wins and who falls.”
Jazz’s brow furrowed slightly. “And what if someone in your familydoesn’t want to play the game anymore? What if they don’t want to win at all costs?”
He met her gaze, his voice low but certain. “They don’t have that option. I’m the one who makes sure the family always wins.”
Something flickered in her expression—curiosity, wariness, maybe a little of both. “Wins what, exactly?”
“Everything that matters.” His grip on her waist tightened slightly, as if reinforcing the truth in his words. “Loyalty. Family. Survival. There’s no second place in our world, Jazz. Either you win, or you lose. And I don’t lose.”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, but he could see the gears turning in her mind. “And what happens to the people who do?”
He studied her, debating how much he should give her. She deserved honesty, but honesty had layers. “Depends on who they are. And how badly they lost.”
She swallowed, her fingers pausing against his skin. “So everything is a game to you. Astrategy.”Her voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it—curiosity, maybe, or something heavier. Her brow furrowed slightly, as if she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to hear his answer or feared she already knewit.
“Not everything.” His hand slid up, fingers tangling in her hair, tilting her head slightly. “Not this.”
She searched his face, as if trying to decide whether she believed him. “Then tell me something real, Titus. Something that isn’t calculated.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He could lie, give her something easy, something that wouldn’t mean anything. But that wasn’t what she was asking for. And, despite himself, he found that he didn’t want to give her anything but the truth.
“I protect what’s mine,” he said finally. “No matter what it takes. No matter the cost.”
Jazz’s breath hitched, but she didn’t look away. “And am I yours?”
His grip in her hair tightened, his other hand sliding possessively over her hip. “You already know the answerto that.”
Her body softened against him. “I don’t know what it means to belong to someone like you, Titus.” Her voice was quiet, but the hesitation was there, an uncertainty she couldn’t quite mask.
Titus leaned in, his lips brushing against her temple. “It means you’re part of my world now. You’re my queen, Jazz. Nothing and no one will ever hurt you.”
Chapter 6
SAM MIRABELLAsat in the cold, sterile room, his hands fidgeting in his lap, the scent of burnt coffee and sweat clinging to the air. The fluorescent light overhead flickered, casting harsh shadows across the scarred metal table. It was his second time here in as many weeks, and each visit left him feeling more like a rat in a maze with noexit.
Agent Reed leaned back in his chair, his expression carefully guarded—gauged, maybe even quietly predatory. There was no impatience, no irritation, just a cold, waiting kind of stillness that made Sam’s skin itch. It was the look of a man who already knew the outcome and was just biding his time before the inevitable.
The younger one, Foster, sat forward, spinning a pen between his fingers. It was the same nervous habit Sam had seen in every one of these meetings. He watched Sam like a man waiting for a tell in a high-stakes pokergame.
“You’re gonna need to do better than this,” Reed said, finally breaking the silence. He flipped open a file, thumbing through pages like he already knew the contents by heart. “Your last tip was a dead end. Smoke and mirrors. We need something solid.”
Sam licked his lips, his throat dry as dust. His fingers twitched, craving the feel of a cigarette between them, the bitter bite of nicotine to steady his nerves. But there were no cigarettes here—just the cold, stale air of the interrogation room and the unrelenting stares of the two agents across from him. “I told you what I know. You don’t get close to Titus Dante unless he wants you close.”
Foster snorted. “And yet, you let your daughter crawl rightinto his bed.”
Sam stiffened, heat flashing through his veins as his shoulders locked up. His gut twisted—not just with anxiety, but with anger. How dare they? His daughter wasn’t some pawn they could use, some bargaining chip to be thrown onto the table. His fingers twitched again, restless and unsettled, but all he had was the cold metal table pressing against hisarms.
He leaned forward, his voice a low growl. “Jazz doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
Reed arched a brow, as though he was amused by Sam’s sudden backbone. “Doesn’t she?” He closed the file and steepled his fingers. “She’s his wife. That means access. Pillow talk. Business conversations she shouldn’t overhear but probably does.”
“She’s not—” Sam shook his head, his jaw tightening. His hands closed into fists on the table, his frustration roiling just beneath the surface. “She doesn’t know anything.”
His voice came out more piercing than he intended, but damn it, they were talking about his daughterlike she was some dense tool to be played. The thought made his blood boil, his pulse hammering in his ears. Jazz was smart, but she wasn’t involved in this—not in the way they were implying. He forced himself to swallow past the dryness in his throat, but the anger lingered, aslow, simmering heat beneath hisribs.
Foster leaned in, lowering his voice like he was offering a favor instead of a trap. His lips curved into something that almost resembled sympathy, but his eyes held none of it. The deliberate softness in his tone sent a slow wave of unease crawling through Sam. It was the voice of a man who had dangled bait before, who had seen desperate men squirm and take the hook without realizing they were already caught. “You don’t know that for sure, do you?”
Sam stayed silent, his fingers tapping against the table in a restless rhythm, ahabit that never helped but always surfaced when he felt cornered. He forced himself to stop, pressing his palms flat against the cold metal, but the tension remained, becoming ever tighter in his chest. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, the pressure oftheir stares suffocating. He needed to think. Needed a way out. But the Feds were closing in, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t see an escape route.
