ANOTHER MESSAGE 

DANTE'S POV

Emilio's cheeks flushed again.

It had become a pattern—Dante slipping into his mind uninvited, and his body responding like it still remembered that night too well. 

That moment on his knees. He swallowed his huge cock, taking it deeper into his mouth and throat and he shuddered the moment he saw Dante's face—there was a hunger in his eyes, something raw and dangerous. 

Dante's hand had gripped the back of his neck, firm and roughly yanking his head so he wouldn't stop.

And that was the motivation he needed.

 He didn't know why he'd done it. Maybe he needed a distraction. Maybe it was because Dante had been so calm while Emilio was shaking apart. Or maybe it was because Dante looked like the kind of man who didn't break, and Emilio had always been drawn to things that didn't shatter.

The veins on his arms, the way his sleeves had been rolled up like he was too impatient for neatness. Dante always looked rough and ready.

Maybe it had been thanks. Maybe it had been desperation.

Dante wasn't gay—he'd been sure of that. He realized it and still, he didn't stop. 

Because Dante was into it. Every man was into a good blow job. 

Ramon was still fussing over his bandages. Emilio sat shirtless on the leather couch in his apartment, cold air kissing his skin.

"You'll bruise for a while," Ramón said. "Don't lift anything heavy."

Emilio didn't respond. He hadn't heard a word. His thoughts were still stuck on Dante.

The door creaked slightly, and one of his men leaned in. "Sir... Dante's messenger is here."

Emilio's pulse spiked instantly.

He nodded stiffly, wiped the back of his neck with his palm, and stood. A new man entered—someone Emilio didn't recognize. Broad, silent, eyes scanning the room with sharp awareness. Not the usual delivery boy. No smirk. No warnings.

He stepped forward and placed a sealed envelope into Emilio's hand without a word, then exited the room just as quietly.

Emilio stared at the paper for a second too long before opening it.

Come to the underground. Let's finish what we started.—D

That was it.

Six words.

His palms were suddenly damp.

Ramón was watching him closely, his brows furrowed with concern. "Emilio, you don't have to go."

Emilio's gaze lingered on the envelope, fingers still clutching it. The words were like an anchor, pulling him toward something he wasn't ready to face. But what else could he do? He was already deep into this world, this life. There was no turning back.

"I have to," Emilio replied, his voice flat.

Dr. Ramón sighed, a hint of worry in his eyes. "You still have injury on your arms."

"I'll be fine," Emilio muttered, standing up and slipping the envelope into his jacket.

Ramón's eyes softened. "You're playing with fire."

He got dressed in silence—black shirt, fitted jacket, no jewelry. He didn't want to look too soft. Not in front of Dante. Not after what happened. Not after what he did.

By the time he arrived, the sky had turned a muted gray, bleeding toward night. The drive was short but heavy. Every second ticked louder in his chest than the tires on the road.

The guards at the underground recognized him immediately, stepping aside without a word. He descended into the dim space—cool, low-lit, the air still laced faintly with smoke and memory.

He had been here before. Had leaned against those walls. Had breathed against Dante's mouth in this very room.

Now it felt like stepping into a ring.

Emilio saw him.

Dante was already there—leaning back against the table, cigarette in hand, his face unreadable as always. His jacket was off. Sleeves dragged up. That same posture was like he had nothing to fear, even now.

Emilio's heart kicked in his chest again, but his face stayed smooth.

He stepped forward quietly, his voice low. "You wanted to finish something."

Dante didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Just looked at him for a long second, smoke curling around his fingers like a warning.

Emilio stood still.

He had come.

Finally, Dante exhaled slowly, the smoke escaping his lips in a smooth stream. 

Slowly he rose to his feet, His movements were deliberate, controlled, like he always was. But his eyes—his eyes held something else now. Anger. Disappointment.

Dante's gaze locked onto Emilio as if nothing else mattered in that moment. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as Dante turned to his men.

"Leave us," he said, his voice calm but firm. The men exchanged wary glances but obeyed, stepping out and leaving only Dante and Emilio standing in the dimly lit room.

Emilio shifted on his feet. "You said we had something to finish."

Dante didn't look at him at first. Just exhaled slowly, the burn in his eyes sharper than the smoke. Then, quietly, he said, "You're just a child, Emilio. One who lets other men fight his battles."

The words landed like a slap.

Emilio blinked, his mouth parting, breath caught halfway. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Dante finally looked at him—really looked—and that gaze was unforgiving. "You went crying to Romano. Let him set up an ambush. You didn't fight me yourself. You tossed me to another man like a brat who couldn't handle the heat."

Emilio's jaw tightened as he stared at Dante, the smoke curling around that maddeningly calm face. His words still rang in the air like a slap—"A child who lets other men fight his battles."

How dare he?

"You think I regret it?" Emilio spat, voice rough with chest rising fast. "You think I feel sorry for doing what I had to do after you humiliated me? His voice rough with anger and his chest rose fast

Before Emilio could catch his breath, Dante's eyes darkened and narrowed. In a fluid, almost predatory motion,

Dante dropped his cigarette to the floor, crushing it with the heel of his boot, he started toward him—slow, steady, like something steaming beneath the surface had finally snapped.

There was no smile on his face now. No teasing, no smugness. Just silence and eyes sharp enough to cut.

Emilio's spine stiffened, but he refused to step back. His pride wouldn't let him.