Chapter 24: Dante
Dante's POV
When I got home, something felt off.
The house was quieter than usual. Too quiet. The mansion always had a certain energy to it—staff moving about, my father's associates coming and going, the subtle hum of activity. But now there was nothing but silence, heavy and foreboding.
I moved through the hallways, my boots echoing against the marble floors, tension coiling in my gut. The sound reverberated through the empty spaces, only intensifying the absence I could already sense.
Valentina should have been here. She was still recovering, and I had explicitly told her to rest. I had left the soup, arranged for her day off, made sure she had everything she needed. She should have listened.
But her room was empty.
I pushed open the door, already knowing what I'd find. The sheets were untouched, her closet half-open with missing clothes, and the faint scent of her perfume lingered in the air like a ghost—a reminder of what should have been there but wasn't.
I clenched my fists, a storm of emotions building inside me.
She left.
The thought sent a dark wave of irritation through me, stronger than it had any right to be. Why did I care so much? Why did her absence feel like a personal betrayal?
I pulled out my phone, ready to call her, to demand she explain herself, but before I could, my second-in-command, Jax, called first.
"Boss, we've got trouble," he said, his tone clipped. "The branch out in Brooklyn is dealing with some shit—territory dispute with one of the smaller gangs. They're pushing into our distribution points."
I gritted my teeth, inhaling sharply. Bad timing.
"Handle it," I ordered, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
Jax hesitated on the other end of the line. "You sure? This could escalate. They've already roughed up a couple of our guys. Might need your personal touch to keep things from getting messier."
I exhaled harshly, running a hand through my hair as I glanced once more at Valentina's empty room. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
As much as I wanted to hunt Valentina down, to find out why she'd disobeyed me, I had responsibilities. This—the club, the business—came first. It always had.
But I swore to myself, the second I had this handled, I was getting my sister back.
---
Three days later, I returned home, exhausted but victorious.
The Brooklyn issue had been handled—our branch secured, the rival gang pushed back into their pathetic little corner. It had taken longer than expected, required more hands-on involvement than I'd planned. Three days of negotiations, intimidations, and finally, a show of force that left no question about who controlled the territory.
But none of that mattered when I stepped inside and found her room still empty.
Something in me snapped.
Without hesitation, I turned to Matteo, who had been by my side throughout the Brooklyn situation. "Where is she?"
My uncle sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper than usual, weary from the days of tension. "Dante—"
"Where." It wasn't a question. It was a demand.
A long pause stretched between us. Then, finally—
"She's at Sheila's place."
I didn't wait for him to say more.
I grabbed my keys and stormed out, Matteo following closely behind. I knew he thought I was overreacting, but I didn't care. This wasn't just about Valentina being sick anymore. This was about her running away, about her thinking she could just walk out.
About her leaving me.
---
Sheila lived in a quiet part of the city, far enough from the gang world to feel safe.
"I had come for Valentina."
I pushed past Sheila before she could stop me, my boots heavy against the hardwood floor. I scanned the apartment quickly—small but well-furnished, warm in a way our mansion never was.
Valentina's voice rang out from the bedroom. "Sheila, who was at the—"
She stopped mid-sentence when she saw me.
Her hazel eyes widened, surprise flashing before quickly morphing into annoyance. She stood in the doorway of what I assumed was the guest room, dressed in a casual top and skirt, her ash-blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid. The color had returned to her cheeks—she looked healthy, rested.
Beautiful.
I didn't speak. I just moved.
Crossing the room in two strides, I grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside, slamming the bedroom door shut behind us. The sound reverberated through the small space, cutting off whatever protest Sheila might have made.
Valentina's mouth parted in shock. "What the hell—"
"Why the fuck didn't you listen to me?" My voice came out low, sharp with frustration. I could feel my control slipping, days of worry and anger bubbling to the surface.
Her nostrils flared, that familiar defiance lighting her eyes. "I did listen to you. I just didn't agree."
I exhaled through my nose, fighting the urge to drag my hand through my hair. "You were still sick when you left."
"I got better." She crossed her arms, chin tilting up in that way that always made me want to either shake her or kiss her.
"You shouldn't have left at all," I snapped. "You should have stayed home."
She crossed her arms, defiant. "You don't get to make that decision for me."
I stepped closer, towering over her. "The hell I don't."
Her eyes darkened. "You're not my father, Dante."
"I'm your brother."
She let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Right. Brother." She tilted her head, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You don't act like a brother, though, do you?"
The words hit harder than she probably intended.
I clenched my jaw. "Watch it."
She took another step forward, challenging me. "Why? Does the truth make you uncomfortable?"
I stared at her.
The room felt smaller, the space between us charged with something neither of us wanted to name. Tension crackled in the air, electric and dangerous.
Her chest rose and fell quickly, her breath uneven. My gaze flickered down—just for a second—but it was enough.
Her lips parted slightly. She noticed.
I forced myself to step back, inhaling deeply, regaining control.
"This conversation isn't over," I muttered.
She scoffed. "It is over, Dante. I don't need you to protect me."
I narrowed my eyes. "That's too fucking bad, kitten."
Her lips pressed into a thin line at the nickname, but something changed in her expression—a flicker of heat in her eyes that matched the fire in my veins.
I turned toward the door, but before I opened it, I glanced back. "You're coming home."
She lifted her chin. "No, I'm not."
A slow smirk tugged at my lips. "We'll see."
I reached for the doorknob, ready to leave, to give us both a moment to cool down before continuing this argument. But then everything changed.
She moved suddenly, decisively. In one fluid motion, she stepped forward, put her hands on my chest, and pushed me backwards until I fell into a sitting position on the bed. Before I could react, she hiked up her skirt and straddled my lap.
The sudden shift caught me off guard. One moment we were fighting, the next she was on top of me, the heat of her body seeping through my jeans.
"What the—" I started, but the words died in my throat as she pressed herself against me.
Her pussy was already wet, the thin fabric of her panties doing nothing to hide it as she ground against my thigh. I could feel her lips against my leg, needing no lubrication to glide smoothly. The sensation sent blood rushing straight to my cock, hardening instantly beneath her.
"Who are you getting hard for?" she asked, her voice low and challenging as her hand reached between us, fingers tracing the outline of my erection through my jeans.
I couldn't help it—I laughed, finding her boldness both amusing and intensely arousing. This wasn't the calculated, controlled Valentina I was used to. This was something else—something raw and wild and unpredictable.
I reached beneath her skirt, hooked a finger into her panties, and pulled them to the side. The movement was rough, possessive. I grabbed her ass with my other hand, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp, her head falling back to expose the elegant line of her throat.
"Then who are you moaning for?" I asked, my voice rough with desire as I pressed my thumb against her clit.