C109 Uner His Skin

The heavy silence in the room clung like a dense fog.

Dante’s gaze swept across the table where the heads of each family sat.

Their expressions were guarded and their postures tense.

The room itself, a stark but luxurious meeting space with polished mahogany furniture and walls lined with intricate carvings of Acadia's mafia history, seemed to mirror the unease in the air. Matteo was looking pale but steady enough as he sat with an air of quiet authority.

While Mikhail leaned back, his sharp, tailored suit emphasizing his confident demeanor.

Though his smirk had been replaced by an uncharacteristic frown.

They were all waiting.

For Romano Baggva.

Dante sat at the head of the table, his dark eyes scanning the room like a predator assessing its prey.

His sharp suit, black as night and paired with his signature onyx ring, fit him like armor.

His presence demanded attention with his every movement deliberate.

Dante had mastered the show of control long enough, and it helped to keep even the most restless in check.

Yet inwardly, his patience stretched thin.

Romano’s absence was a statement.

It was a calculated insult, whether intentional or not.

He tapped his fingers lightly against the table, the sound barely audible but enough to draw Mikhail’s sharp glance.

“He’s testing you,” Mikhail murmured, his tone tinged with irritation.

“Or grieving,” Dante replied evenly, though his jaw tightened as he said it.

Mikhail snorted. “Grieving doesn’t excuse disrespect.”

“Enough.” Matteo’s voice cut through, quiet but firm. “We wait.”

Wait they did, though the tension simmered dangerously close to boiling.

Dante’s mind drifted back to the confrontation the night before.

He remembered how he had faced down the barrel of Romano’s gun.

It was a calculated move to test the older man’s resolve.

Bavvga didn't make a move to lower his gun.

In fact, he looked ready to use it on Dante even as he calculated the odds.

Before he could make a decision, Dante's backup arrived in the form of Mikhail’s men and more backup from Dante's men.

Angelo and Dante had sent their backup signal while stepping out of the hidden door.

When Bavvga saw the men behind his men, he seemed to realise immediately that the odds would not favour him if he decided to act funny.

He lowered his gun and signalled to his men to let go of the men in their hold.

“Romano,” Dante began, his voice low but sharp as a blade. “I understand your grief. No father should have to bury his son.” He stepped forward, his imposing presence casting a shadow over the older man. “But be careful where you point fingers. The last thing you want is to make a mistake worse than the one your son made.”

Romano’s response was bitter and cutting.

His words echoed in Dante’s mind even now: “I won’t bury my son until his killer rots in hell.” The accusation in his glare was unmistakable.

His men had brittled at the direct insult, but Dante signalled them to stand down. Then he told Romano that he was ready to help him with everything he might need to find his son’s killer.

Romano said nothing.

He sidestepped Dante without a word and hurried toward the hidden door that led to where his son’s body lay.

The night refused to end.

Not long after leaving the scene, Dante received news that the informant who had tipped him off about Rafaele’s meeting had been found dead.

It was a message, clear and unmistakable.

Someone wanted to silence loose ends and send a warning.

By the time he had sent out notices for a meeting with the families the next morning, dawn was breaking.

Exhaustion weighed on him, not just in his bones but in his soul.

The unending mess, the blood, the betrayals were all part of the life he was born to, but nights like this made it feel like it was eroding him piece by piece.

When he finally stepped into his bedroom,

He was already undressing when the thought seeped into his mind that she was just on the other side of his room.

Dante’s exhaustion shifted into something else, a pull so visceral it made him pause.

All he wanted was to be near her.

To hold her and to let her quiet presence drown out the noise of the night.

He hadn’t planned to wake her.

He hadn’t even planned to climb into her bed.

As he reached her, he saw how peaceful she looked.

Her usual guarded expression replaced with something soft, almost vulnerable.

Then she had woken up as if she felt his presence too.

He remembered how those mesmerising eyes of hers had stared at him in confusion before he slipped into her bed.

She looked so delectable in her bed that he had simply gotten into bed with her and surprised himself by just holding her to sleep. She was still sleeping that morning when he reluctantly left and the man he called the meeting because of him had decided not to show up?

A faint noise from the hallway pulled Dante back to the present.

The heavy double doors opened, and Romano Baggva strode in, unapologetic and defiant.

His tailored suit hung a little looser than usual, the weight of loss evident in his hollow cheeks and bloodshot eyes.

Yet his posture was rigid, his head held high as though daring anyone to challenge him.

“Forgive me,” Romano drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. “A man who has just lost his son might not find unnecessary meetings worth his time.”

The air crackled with tension.

Several heads turned toward Dante, waiting for his reaction.

But he remained impassive with his dark eyes fixed on Romano.

“Your loss is felt by us all,” Dante said, his voice smooth, betraying none of the frustration simmering beneath. “Rafael’s death is a tragedy, and I offer my condolences. But this meeting is necessary. There is a rabid dog among us, one who has already struck too many times. First against me, now against you.”

Romano’s expression darkened, his lips curling into a sneer. “A rabid dog? Or a cunning one? Tell me, Dante, what business did you have meeting my son last night?”

Without looking at the other men, Romano continued loudly, “Gentlemen, wouldn’t you like to know why our leader was found at the site of my son’s murder after he accused us all of betrayal?”

The words hung in the air like a challenge.

The heads of the other families shifted uncomfortably, their gazes darting between Romano and Dante.

Dante leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped on the table, his expression unyielding. “I never accused any of you of betrayal. I only informed you of what had been happening and asked what you might know about it.”

The silence was impregnable as Dante paused.

Then he continued, “As for your son, I received information that Rafael was behind the attacks on my operations. I sought answers, not blood. If I wanted him dead, I wouldn’t have needed to meet him.”

Romano’s nostrils flared, but before he could retort, Matteo interjected, his voice steady but strained. “Romano, grief is clouding your judgment. Accusations without proof serve no one.”

Romano turned on Matteo, his face twisted with anger. “Spare me your lectures, Matteo. You’re half-dead already. Don’t presume to advise me.”

The insult hung heavy in the room, and Mikhail’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood abruptly.

“Watch your tongue, old man,” he snapped, his voice icy.

“Mikhail,” Dante said sharply, his tone a warning.

Mikhail hesitated but eventually sat, though his glare remained fixed on Romano.

Dante looked at Matteo and his godfather shrugged in understanding.

“I understand your pain,” Dante said, his voice calm but firm. “Losing a son is unimaginable. But we have a greater enemy to face. Someone is orchestrating this, pitting us against each other to weaken us all. We need unity, not division.”

Romano’s laugh was bitter, cutting through the room like a blade. “Unity? With the man who lured my son to his death?”

“I lured no one,” Dante said, his tone hardening. “But if you believe otherwise, feel free to act on it. Just be sure you’re ready for the consequences.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Dante’s words pressing down on everyone present.

Romano’s jaw tightened, his eyes blazing with a mix of fury and grief.

“I don’t need your help,” Romano said finally, his voice cold. “I’ll find my son’s killer on my own.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Matteo said bluntly, earning a sharp glare from Romano.

Romano rose to his feet, his movements stiff but deliberate. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave. May I have your permission to leave, Don Cazador?”

Romano’s words hung in the air, laced with mockery as he asked for dismissal.

Dante’s dark eyes stayed fixed on him.

He wasn’t angry though. Instead, he felt sad for the man.

The way Romano was lashing out made him think of his father and he wondered how he would have reacted if something happened to Dante while he was alive.

Dante’s expression didn’t waver, though the insult was clear. “Go. And if you need anything…resources, information, men…don’t hesitate to ask. Despite your grief, we are not enemies, Romano.”

Romano didn’t reply, striding out of the room without another glance.

The tension lingered even after the doors closed behind him.

Dante looked at the other men.

He told them to be careful because the coward striking from the shadows might want to do it again.

Also he told them to help Romano out with any resources he might need to find his son’s killers.

Then he dismissed them.

The door shut behind them, leaving only Matteo and Mikhail with him.

“You’re too lenient,” Mikhail muttered, shaking his head. “Allowing him to disrespect you like that sends the wrong message.”

“Let anyone who takes inspiration from him try,” Dante said quietly.

His tone carried a weight that made even Mikhail fall silent.

But the edge in his voice was hollow.

His focus had already drifted, pulled by a thought that refused to let go.

It wasn’t Romano, or Matteo, or the families.

It was her.

Annabelle.

The image came unbidden, vivid and almost too real.

A boy with her green eyes, bold and watchful, like his mother.

A girl with chestnut hair, her delicate features etched with Annabelle’s quiet strength.

The vision tugged something deep inside him, a yearning he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before.

His jaw tightened, and he shifted in his chair.

The thought was so dangerous and potent that it settled in his chest like a lit fuse.

The idea of Annabelle, not just in his arms but in his future.

Giving him something he’d never dared to want, hit him harder than he expected.

His groin tightened painfully, a visceral reaction he couldn’t suppress.

He let out a sharp exhale, rubbing a hand over his face as if that could clear his head.

But it was no use.

She was under his skin, in his blood.

And the thought of having children with her made it burn all the hotter.