DEVIL IN DISGUISE

DANTE'S POV

Dante hadn't slept since he returned.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Emilio's mouth on his damn cock. The wet heat, the surrender, the way Emilio looked up at him with those damned eyes.

It was maddening.

Emilio was a man—And his audacity freaked Dante out because no man dared to do that to him. Not one of his men will ever play those deadly and he would knock them out of their dare and yet he allowed Emilio?

And then—the ambush.

He could still hear the bullets flying in the woods. The scrape of bark against his back. Emilio's panicked breathing. The sting of steel handcuffs. It all clicked into place once Dante started tracing the attackers. One by one faces led to names, and names led to a single connection: Romano.

Romano, the infamous Sicilian boss with a legacy soaked in blood.

Dante was never one to let a knife linger in his back.

He began to plan.

Luca refused to stay behind. "You think I'll sit still after my cousin gets kidnapped and left to die in the goddamn woods?" he'd shouted, slamming his fist on the table. "I'm coming with you."

Dante didn't argue. Luca was already packing his gun.

They touched down in Italy with fire in their lungs.

By the time they arrived, it was late evening. The sun dipped behind the horizon, bathing the estate in blood-orange light. His men spread out, covering exits, cutting power lines, and disabling surveillance. Romano wouldn't know what hit him.

Dante stepped out of the vehicle, gloves on, gun cocked, the wind tugging at his coat like a silent warning.

The attack was swift.

Gunfire tore through the silence, glass shattered, and Romano's men fell like dominoes. It wasn't a war—it was an execution. Dante's rage-fueled every step as he stormed through the marble halls of the villa, his eyes scanning for the one man responsible.

He found Romano upstairs, cornered and wide-eyed in a study full of antique guns and cowardice.

Romano didn't have a chance to speak before Dante's boot smashed him to the floor. The old man grunted, and tried to reach for something—but Dante's foot pressed down on the back of his neck, pinning him.

"You sent them after me," Dante growled, rage bubbling behind his clenched teeth. "You planned to kill me in the woods. Like a coward."

Romano gasped under the pressure. "Wait—wait, you don't understand—"

"I understand betrayal just fine."

Romano coughed, cheek mashed against the floor. "It wasn't just me—"

Dante stilled.

"What did you say?"

Romano panted, breath ragged. "It wasn't just me. Emilio came to me—said he'd lure you out. Said he'd make sure you were alone so I could do it."

For a full second, Dante's entire world paused.

The memory of Emilio's mouth—his hands, his voice, "It's not a surrender" crashed violently against the truth bleeding out now.

Romano wasn't lying. Not with Dante's gun to his spine.

From behind, Luca made a sound between a growl and a hiss. "He planned it with Emilio?"

"Yes," Romano choked. "He came to me. Said it was for revenge. That he needed it done clean."

Dante's blood roared in his ears.

Luca stormed forward, eyes blazing. "Let's go back right now and put a bullet in that bastard. I'll do it myself."

"No."

Dante's voice was calm but final.

Luca turned on him. "You're protecting him?"

"I said no."

Luca's voice cracked the quiet like a whip, his face flushed with fury. "You're defending him?"

"I'm not protecting him," Dante said quietly. "I'm just saying..." His eyes flicked down to Romano, who lay trembling and bloodied on the floor. "It won't be your bullet."

Luca stared at him, stunned. His fists clenched at his sides like he didn't know whether to punch Dante or scream. "You're serious. After what he did?"

Dante didn't answer. He turned away from Romano with slow, deliberate steps, boots echoing against the concrete. "This isn't over," he muttered coldly. "But I'm done with you for now."

Romano groaned, but Dante didn't look back. He didn't need to. The man would live—for now.

Luca followed him out, tension rolling off him like heat. The hallway was narrow and silent, a thick pressure building between them as they climbed into the car parked just outside the hideout.

The sun had nearly dipped beneath the Italian hills, casting everything in a dusky orange that made the air feel heavier. 

Dante leaned back in the passenger seat, the smell of blood and sweat still clinging to him, the weight of betrayal sitting squarely on his shoulders.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just stared ahead, his jaw tight, eyes narrowed.

He never thought Emilio would go that far.

Never thought Emilio would toss his fight into another man's hands like some brat too scared to bleed. If he wanted war, he should've had the guts to start it himself. Not hide behind someone else's trigger.

Coward

That was something else.

That was war.

He'd expected fire from Emilio. Fury. Stupid stunts. Maybe even a broken truce. But not this. Not handing Dante's head over like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.

Luca finally broke the silence, voice low. "What now?"

Dante didn't answer right away. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together slowly.

"I don't know," he said at last, though his tone was anything but uncertain.

But Luca knew that look. The dead calm before a storm. The kind of calm that made bones shiver.

Whatever Dante was planning... it wasn't going to be clean.

And it sure as hell wasn't going to be simple.

Maybe he'd fight Emilio. Maybe he'd listen first. Maybe—God help them both—he'd still feel something when he saw him.

But one thing was clear: Emilio wouldn't walk away untouched.

Dante would handle it.

On his terms.

And when he did, everyone would feel it.