Chapter 109 WRONG DEN.

Chapter 109 WRONG DEN.
DANTE
I raised a finger at Mom and stepped back, pressing the phone harder against my ear. She watched me leave with a look of dread and hope.
I exhaled slowly, keeping my voice steady.
"I'm listening," I said.
The man on the other end hesitated. When he spoke again, his words tumbled out in a rush.
"I fell for her," he admitted. "I wasn't supposed to, but I did. And I've been living with what I've done to her every single day."
My grip on the phone tightened.
"Someone hired me," he continued. "To get her hooked. She injects through her big toe, so no one would find the marks if they looked in obvious places." He paused. "I'm sorry. I know that's not—"
I was already on the move.
Up the stairs, down the hallway, into the bedroom. My keys were on the dresser, and I snatched them without slowing down.
My baby sister. Damn! How could I have let her walk out that door?
"Why?" I asked as I bounded down the stairs two at a time. "Who paid you?"
"Her ex-husband." His voice steadied a bit. "He wants to make her unfit so he can win custody and take both the child and half of what she owns."
That loser of a husband—I'd never liked him.
"Your sister has been spending all her money on drugs and people blackmailing her. She really tried hard to keep it quiet so she wouldn’t embarrass your family."
I stepped outside into the warm night air—it might have been my anxiety heating me up inside. I got into the car.
"Why are you telling me this?"
No one gives away information for free, especially not an enemy like him.
"Because she once told me that everyone was too busy for her—that she felt invisible." His voice dropped lower. "She said I was the only one who actually gave her any real attention. And I just—I sat with that realization: that I was there to destroy her, and she trusted me most while I was sent to ruin her life." He let out a breath. "I can't keep doing it anymore; it's tearing me apart."
"Why now?" I sped away from the compound. "Why wait until tonight?"
"Because every time I can't reach her, I panic. And tonight I couldn't reach her."
"Where would she go?" I asked. "Think. Where does she usually run to?"
"There's a club downtown. We go there sometimes." I could hear voices in the background. "I'll send you the address. I have to go—I can't get arrested for this."
The call ended, leaving me alone in the car with everything he had just revealed.
I slammed my fist against the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles split. Again and again, I pounded it, but the sound filled the car without being enough—nothing could contain what was weighing down my chest.
'I tore her sleeve.' In front of our mother, I'd grabbed my sister and handled her like she was a suspect rather than a person. I was so convinced I was searching in the right place that I never considered that maybe I was looking through entirely the wrong lens. Caught up in protecting everyone else—the company, Mom, Cinnamon, and the secret we carried like a second skeleton—I let Dove slip right past me without even realizing it.
She had always seemed strong. Or at least, it appeared that way to me. My whole life, I'd confused those two notions and never stopped to figure out which one it really was.
I recalled her as a child—nine years old, perched on the edge of my bed at two in the morning after hearing me scream from down the hall. She sat there with an untroubled calmness, her feet swinging off the mattress as she said, "It's just a dream, Dante. You're still here." She did that every time after the crash—every single time—keeping me anchored to this world while my nightmares pulled me back to that wreckage.
Now someone had spent months methodically breaking her down piece by piece, and I didn't notice. It was my responsibility to protect her. I made her think that I wasn’t available for that kind of call.
“Arghhhhhhh!!” I hit the steering wheel again, not caring about the pain. I pulled over to the side of the road, my shoulders slumping as my forehead rested against the wheel. I didn’t care if anyone heard me or if society believed men shouldn’t show weakness. I cried. I didn’t hold back; I let out a loud, body-shaking wail.
'My baby sister. How could anyone do this to someone like her?'
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, picked up my phone, and dialed her number. It rang and went unanswered. I called again. Still nothing. Again. Again. Seven times, eight times—then her voicemail came on, her bright and carefree voice echoing in the car only made it worse.
I called Cinnamon.
She answered on the second ring. “Dante? Where have you been? Your mom is—”
“Dove’s in trouble.” My voice was still hoarse as I swallowed hard. “I’m out looking for her. If she comes back home—”
“I’ll call you right away. What kind of trouble?” I could hear the panic rising in her voice as she waited for my answer. “Dante, are you crying?”
“It’s bad, Ci.” I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. “I can’t explain everything right now.”
In her softest tone, she asked, “Are you okay, honey?”
“No,” I replied without thinking about it first. “No, I’m not.”
She filled the silence with nothing unnecessary. That was one of the things I appreciated most about her—she understood when words were just noise.
“What do you need?”
“Just hold things together there. I’m not sure how long I'll be gone.”
“Okay. I'm tracking your location. Please keep me updated.”
“I will.” I exhaled deeply. “Thank you.”
I hung up and resumed driving. The address came through, a pin marking a part of the city I hadn’t even known existed until now.
An hour and twelve minutes later, due to traffic, I arrived at a dilapidated building with broken signs hanging off it. Slowing down, I noticed how out of place my car felt in this environment.
I rolled down the window, and a strong odor filled the air. The music blaring was almost overwhelming. I turned off the engine and stepped out, feeling all eyes on me as I stood there for a moment, just taking it in.
'Dove.' The name stuck in my throat. 'So this is where you've been.'
Inside, the situation was even worse. The air was thick with smoke, bodies, and a chemical scent lurking beneath it all. People moved in a sluggish, underwater manner, arms relaxed, eyes distant, laughter that felt out of place and echoed off walls coated in who-knows-what. There were faces in that room far too young for what they were doing. Children. Just barely teenagers, huddled in corners with drinks in their hands as if someone had let them down so thoroughly that they ended up here.
I pulled out my phone and dialed 911 walking inside. "I need to report an illegal establishment." I provided the address and details. I hung up and continued moving.
Out of nowhere, a large hand landed on my chest. He looked down at me weariness.
"Move your hand," I commanded, impatient.
He glanced at my suit and then back at my face. A hint of amusement crossed his expression. "Bold for your size."
"I'll count to three."
"Or what, man in a suit?" He tilted his head. "What exactly would you do?"
I was running on anger, after a dinner that had devolved into chaos, a phone call that had broken me, and the simmering rage of a man who had just cried alone by the side of the road for his sister.
I didn’t count.
My fist connected with his nose in one swift, brutal swing. The crack was immediate. He stumbled back, hand flying to his face, blood seeping between his fingers as he stared disoriented.
He started yelling.
I didn’t stop.
I can’t recall all of it clearly, that's the honest truth. I remember the noise. I remember the crowd parting. I remember each hit landing somewhere other than where the real problem lay. My brain blacked out.
Then a voice sliced through the silence.
"Who the hell walks into my place and starts causing trouble—" a voice followed by a click of something, then a metal brushing against the side of my head.
I paused beating the man to observe who had pointed a gun at me.
The man was stocky, in his mid-fifties. The barrel was steady, and his eyes were icy.
I slowly moved my gaze from the gun to his face.
"Mr. Moretti?" He immediately recognised me.
I didn’t ask how he knew me. My face had been plastered on enough covers, enough headlines, and enough boardroom announcements for strangers to recognize me in places I’d never visited.
"Where," I said quietly, "is my sister?"
He opened his mouth to respond.
"Think carefully before you answer." I took a step toward him. "Because I promise you, God help everyone in this building if anything has happened to her."