Dante’s face, usually so sculpted and serene, twisted into a mask of terrifying rage. A fire, not just in his eyes, but emanating from his very core, ignited a hellish conflagration that burned away any trace of the man I loved. He straightened, his full height a looming shadow, before unleashing the storm.
In a blur of motion, faster than any human should be capable of, he moved.
The impact echoed in my ears—a sickening thud that stole the breath from my lungs—as his fist connected with the smug, painted face of that bitch. The sound of cracking bone was brutally clear, a symphony of destruction that left me breathless and horrified, yet strangely, terrifyingly satisfied.
But he wasn’t finished.
Not by a long shot.
Before the guttural scream could even form on her lips, a tremor—a seismic shift in the very air—announced his next action. The man I thought I knew, this polished façade I’d swallowed whole, snaked a hand inside his impeccably tailored jacket. The cool, slick weight of the steel against his palm was palpable, even from across the room. The metallic scent of gun oil, sharp and acrid, cut through the cloying perfume clinging to the air, a brutal counterpoint to the sudden, sickening silence that followed.
Then the shot.
A deafening crack that ripped through the fragile quiet, followed by the sickening thud of her skull meeting the polished wood floor. Her lifeblood blossomed, a crimson stain against the expensive Persian rug, a grotesque mockery of the elegant setting. Carrie, once a desperate and conniving woman, was now just... gone. Reduced to a pool of spreading crimson.
And Dante, the man I knew, the man I thought I knew, stood there, the smoke curling from the barrel of his gun, as a chilling smile played on his lips, a smile that spoke of a darkness far deeper than I could ever have imagined, and it was at that moment I realized the love of my life was the Devil in Disguise.
Chapter Twenty
Dante
“WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE?!” Sinclair roared into the cavernous space.
I spun around; my gun, cold steel biting into my palm, trained on Sinclair. Every nerve ending in my body screamed a symphony of rage and grief. His face, a mask of smug complacency, was a canvas of every betrayal, every heartbreak, every stolen moment of peace. He’d orchestrated it all, a puppet master pulling the strings of my life, twisting me into knots of despair. He’d never flinched, never relented, always finding new, ingenious ways to torment me, to break me.
But this... this was the end.
Never again would I let him torment my life.
“I’m cleaning up your fucking mess,” I hissed, my words dripping with bitterness, “and I’m taking my husband home.” My voice was a low growl, a promise etched in ice. My legs felt rooted to the floor, a defiance burning in my gut, despite the tremor of uncertainty that gnawed at my composure. Danny lay at my feet, a broken bird, his breath ragged and shallow.
I wouldn’t give Sinclair the satisfaction of seeing my fear.
I had to play strong.
“You stupid fool!” Sinclair spat, his voice a slithering viper’s hiss. “Do you know who her father is?” The emphasis on the possessive pronoun was a calculated jab, a reminder of the power he wielded.
“I don’t give a single goddamn fuck,” I snarled, my gaze unwavering. The cold steel of my gun felt reassuringly heavy in my hand. “You brought her here. You explain. And I’m leaving, with or without your cooperation.”
“You are not going anywhere, Dante”—Sinclair’s tone dropped to a chilling growl, laced with a predatory glee—“and neither is Sypher. Not until he tells me what I want to know.”
His name, Sypher—Danny’s alias—was a bitter pill to swallow.
This wasn’t just about Danny anymore; it was about the years of manipulation, the decades of carefully laid plans.
“Try and stop me,” I challenged, my voice tight with barely suppressed fury.
I kicked Danny’s jeans closer, the rough fabric grating against my shoes. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My gun remained steady, a cold comfort against the rising tide of panic. “Get dressed, Danny. Now.”
The urgency in my voice was genuine, fueled by a desperate hope that I wouldn’t fail him in his moment of greatest need. Sinclair, with his chilling smile, was a predator I wouldn’t hesitate to kill.
“Put the gun down, Dante.” Sinclair’s command, a malice hiss laced with the stale reek of expensive bourbon, slithered across the room. The familiar dominance, once a chilling weight on my chest, now felt like a fly buzzing around my ears—irritating, but insignificant. His power, the cruel game he’d played with my life for years, was finally broken.
Tonight, I was reclaiming the life he’d stolen, piece by bloody piece.
“Take another step, Sinclair,” I snarled, the metallic tang of blood already blooming on my tongue, a taste of the vengeance I craved. “And I swear to God, I’ll blow your fucking head clean off.”
He smirked, a cruel, predatory grin that exposed sickeningly white teeth.
