Chapter 89 - God, This Woman

Chapter 89 - God, This Woman
Dante’s POV

The precinct smelled the same as ever; bleach, burnt coffee, and sweat. The walls hadn’t changed either. Off-white, lined with award plates and tired officers slumped behind their desks. Even the ceiling fan above me creaked in the exact same rhythm, like some damn ghost of the past trying to hum me a warning.

I stepped inside slowly, my boots echoing against the scuffed tiles. The detective on the phone had given me no details. Just an address, a name, and a tone I didn’t like.

“Mr. Romano,” a voice called from behind a door with frosted glass.

I turned, and that’s when I saw him.

Detective Emiliano Russo.

My breath stilled. The years had added weight to his frame and grayed his beard, but I’d know that face anywhere. He used to sit in our living room every other Friday, drinking espresso with my father like they were brothers-in-arms. Always in uniform. Always watching me like he could already see the criminal I’d become.

“Emiliano,” I said, stiffly. “Didn’t know you were back in town.”

His smile was tight. “Transfer was approved a few months ago. Thought I’d retire somewhere peaceful, but seems your city has more work than rest.”

I didn’t return the smile. My eyes narrowed.

“You were my father’s ally. What is this really about?”

He opened the door wider and gestured for me to step in. “Old times, Dante. Sit. This isn’t a bust. Not yet.”

Not yet.

I walked in, each step deliberate. The office was cleaner than the rest of the building. Framed certificates, a worn leather chair, a liquor bottle tucked discreetly behind some case files.

“Whiskey?” he offered, lifting the bottle.

I scoffed. “Depends. You planning to arrest me before or after the drink?”

He chuckled, low and slow. “You now have quite a mouth on you.”

He slid a folder across the table. I didn’t reach for it. My gut was already twisting.

“You’re being investigated,” he said plainly. “Off the books, for now. But if this moves up the chain…” he lifted a brow, “you’re looking at federal-level scrutiny.”

I opened the folder slowly.

Account statements. Property purchases. Shell companies. A few were mine, ones I shut down years ago. But the rest were fake. Too clean. Too well-timed. Someone had built this trail on purpose, and they wanted it pointing right at me. 

“What’s this?” I asked flatly, though I already knew.

“Your life, Dante. Your empire. Someone tipped us off, and now… we’re following the trail.”

I looked up at him, eyes cold. “This doesn’t even make any sense.”

“I’m here to offer a solution, Dante,” he said, leaning forward. “Clean it up. Help me separate truth from garbage. If I find enough fiction, I can bury this where it belongs.”

Just like that.

I should’ve felt relief. But all I felt was heat crawling up the back of my neck. Gabriel had once spoken with that same rehearsed calm. And I’d believed him—trusted him—until he bled me dry and set fire to everything I cared about.

Now this man, another remnant of my father’s life, was offering salvation.

Every fiber of me screamed in distrust.

“Why help me?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Your father saved my ass more than once. I owe him. And I know you’re not stupid enough to let this house of cards collapse on your own head. You still have a chance to fix this.”

I pushed the folder back toward him.

“I’m not interested in charity. And I don’t need another ghost from my father’s life pretending to be a friend.”

His jaw tightened. “That wasn’t a smart move.”

I stood. “Smart got me betrayed. Now I go with instinct. And my instinct says you’re lying.”

His eyes flashed, but I didn’t wait for an answer. I turned and walked out.

The warrant came less than twelve hours later.

My phone buzzed violently, lighting up with texts from banks, legal advisors, and security. My assets were frozen. My properties flagged. My accounts locked down.

The unmarked black cars pulled up outside the estate before I’d even had time to process.

This time, there were no conversations. No warnings.

Just cold metal on my wrists.

—————

The holding cell was quieter than I remembered.

I sat in the corner, head down, jaw locked. They hadn’t asked questions yet—just processed me, printed me, and tossed me into a room that smelled like piss and rotting cigarettes.

24 hours.

That’s how long I’d been here.

I hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t reacted. I’d done time before, just quick and controlled stays for show. But this was different. It felt like someone had pulled the floor out from beneath me.

And then, he appeared.

Slicked hair. Sharp suit. Clipboard in hand like he owned the place.

He stopped just outside the holding area, beyond the barred gates that kept me locked in. 

I knew that face.

The journalist.

He’d interviewed me once, back when I still entertained the press. Back before I learned he used to work for Vincenzo. 

And now he was here. That wasn’t a coincidence.

He cleared his throat, stepping close but respecting the boundary the guards made sure stayed intact.

“Don Romano,” he called out, voice dripping with false civility. “Care to comment on the reports linking you to offshore accounts and illicit wire transfers?”

I turned my face toward the cold concrete wall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact or a word.

He pressed on, voice louder this time. “These allegations could destroy you. What do you have to say?”

The stench of expensive soap and arrogance hit me, and I fought the urge to spit.

I stayed silent.

After a moment, I heard the scribble of his pen as he took notes, then he started to walk away.

That’s when I spoke—low, deliberate, and sharp as a blade.

“Next time we meet, I won’t be behind bars. Remember that before you show your face again.”

He paused, a flicker of surprise crossing his smug expression.

“You should be more worried about who put you there.”

My fists clenched.

Gabriel was dead. Vincenzo too. So who the hell was left?

A chill crept down my spine. He wanted me rattled. For a second, he got it.

But not for long.

He gave me a smug, satisfied glance before walking out like he’d already won.

Later that night, I was able to make my first call.

It went to voicemail.

My second and third calls were blocked.

Every contact I had in the department had gone cold like they’d never known me.

The weight in my chest got heavier.

By morning, I was done waiting.

I called Emiliano.

“I have something you’ll want to hear,” I said, voice flat. “Come to the station.”

He arrived within the hour, looking smug. He was halfway through opening his file when the door to the visitation area opened with force, startling even the officer by the wall.

Lucia.

She stepped inside like fire incarnate wearing black, jaw sharp, heels clicking against the tile like a judge delivering sentence. Behind her stood a man in a pinstripe suit. A lawyer, no doubt.

Her eyes locked on me first. Then on Emiliano.

“That conversation ends now,” she said, voice like steel. “He’s not saying a word without his lawyer—period.”

My brows lifted. She wasn’t the lawyer and yet, in that moment, she was the fiercest defense I’d ever had.

She came.

Even after everything, she came.

God, this woman.