DANTE'S POV
The chill of the night clung to my skin, slicing through the streets of Paris with a biting edge, yet it didn't bother me. My mind was too restless, too wired with thoughts that drowned out the cold. I needed air, space…something to numb the onslaught of emotions that had torn through me in the last twenty-four hours. I hadn't been able to shake the look on that boy's face, those wide eyes that mirrored mine. My son-yet he wasn't mine. It would have been easy to pin the blame on Helena, but what good would that do? I knew it was my own fault, too-shoving her away when she needed me most, all because of my loyalty to Gianna.
A few blocks away, a quiet bar flickered with dim, welcoming light, almost out of sight. It seemed like the right place to disappear for a while. I slipped inside and took a seat at the center of the bar. The bartender poured my whiskey, and I held it, watching the way the amber liquid caught the dim light, swirling in the glass. Everything felt hectic. Too close, too fast, a whirlwind of memories I hadn't asked for, and now, the harsh reality of meeting a son I could never call my own.
I sipped slowly, the whiskey burning a path down my throat, grounding me. The quiet was comforting. Only a few others dotted the bar: an old man nursing a beer and a couple bickering in heated French. I wasn't eager to go back to the hotel room where Helena lay asleep, oblivious to the storm tearing through me. So I stayed, savoring the solitude, or whatever was left of it.
A flicker of movement at the door caught my eye, and I saw three men enter, dressed in dark leather jackets. Their gazes flicked toward me, and they took seats on either side of the room, their eyes still fixed in my direction. I hadn't been to Paris before, but I doubted I had enemies here. The Anottis weren't that smart-especially with Tony gone. But something felt wrong, the hairs on the back of my neck pricking with unease. I finished my whiskey, barely tasting it anymore, and slipped out of the bar, letting the cold air hit me again.
This time, the air felt sharper, an edge of danger in it. I wasn't scared, but I'd be a fool to ignore the signs. I wasn't armed, and I felt exposed, vulnerable in a strange country. I quickened my steps, the hotel just a few blocks away, when I caught footsteps trailing behind me.
Turning sharply onto the next street, I tried to put some distance between myself and the figures. But as I rounded a corner, someone appeared in front of me. I barely had a moment to react before a cloth pressed over my mouth, the faint smell of fruit filling my nose. Then, darkness.
When I came to, thin rays of sunlight seeped through a crack in the closed windows of the room. My wrists throbbed, bound tightly to a chair, the rope cutting into my skin with every movement. I let out a slow, bitter laugh. "I just can't catch a fucking break. Targeted in another country too?." I tugged at the bindings, ignoring the sting as they bit into my skin, desperate to test the limits of my restraints. Just as I began to yank harder, the door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and brighter light that made me squint.
And then, of all people…Francis stepped inside. Helena's ex.
"You," I growled, still trying to free my hands, feeling the rawness of my skin. "You did this?"
Francis's dark eyes gleamed with a strange mix of satisfaction and malice. He walked in slowly, dragging a chair and setting it directly in front of me. He straddled it, staring me down, a wicked smirk pulling at his lips. He looked different-more dangerous, with his long hair tied back by a bandana, giving his face a hardness I hadn't seen before.
"What do you want?" I demanded, watching him with careful intensity, noting every shift, every movement. "I don't even know you."
He tilted his head, his eyes sharp, and then pulled a knife from his pocket, running a cloth over the blade with almost a loving touch. "I'm going to end you," he said slowly, enunciating every word in a thick French accent.
"Because of Helena?" I sneered. "That's cheap. I didn't you French men played so dirty."
His face tightened, and he shot me a lethal glare. "I've heard about you," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "King of the mafia, feared and respected." He leaned in closer, his gaze steady. "But you know what, pretty boy? Here, in this country, you're nothing."
The words cut sharper than I wanted to admit. He was right. Out here, away from the protection of my territory, I was exposed, unarmed, and stripped of the power I held back home.
Francis continued, his voice laced with arrogance. "I don't speak much English, and you don't understand a word of French, so I'll keep it simple." His voice dropped, each word punctuated with a menace that didn't need translation. "I'm going to kill you, and I'll have my woman. And I'll make sure she watches, so she never underestimates me again."
I stayed silent, gauging him, searching for the faintest hint of weakness. His pride, his anger-those were my only advantages. But as I stared at him, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a phone. My stomach twisted. He glanced at me, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips before he pressed the screen, raising it to his ear.
"Hello, mon chéri," he said, his voice sickeningly soft.