Chapter 72 The marina
The morning air carried the faint scent of the sea clean, bright, and deceptive.
Dante parked by the marina, sunlight bouncing off the calm water like shards of glass. He’d come early, just as the message instructed and he came alone.
The number had no name, the number didn't work when he called back. Just that one short text.
He hadn’t told Sienna about it. Not because he wanted to hide it but because something about it felt fragile, like if he said it out loud, it would lose meaning.
He leaned against the hood of his car, squinting toward the boats bobbing softly in the harbor. The morning rush of Monaco hummed faintly behind him with the sound of engines, footsteps and the distant chatter of tourists.
But here, by the sea, it was quiet.
He waited.
A few minutes passed. Then an hour.
Nobody came.
He checked his phone again. Still nothing. Just the same line glowing on the screen like an accusation.
“You wanted the truth. Come alone.”
He exhaled slowly, the sunlight glinting off his sunglasses. The gulls wheeled above, their cries echoing faintly. His injured leg ached, the cold creeping through the denim. He shifted his weight, trying not to think about the flash drive, the video, Sienna’s voice in his head saying trust me.
“Then why hide it?” he murmured to himself. “She said she’d never lie to me, but she lied,” The memory of Sienna’s voice haunted him soft, steady and full of care. But now it sounded different in his head. He kept wondering if she’d said those same gentle words to someone else too.
Minutes bled into hours.
He checked his watch half past ten. Then eleven. Still no one had showed up.
His stomach twisted. He’d skipped dinner the previous night though Sienna had made some chicken soup and bread.
He’d seen her sleeping in the guest room when he grabbed his keys. The way her eyes were closed like she did nothing wrong. She looked so innocent that she almost made him stay. But he couldn’t. Not until he knew what was true.
His voice sounded small against the wind.
He tried calling the unknown number again. A flat tone replied: “Number doesn't exist.”
He rubbed his jaw, feeling tension coil through him. Something wasn’t right.
Maybe it had been a trick. Maybe whoever sent the message wanted to see if he’d come running if they could control him like a puppet with curiosity as a string.
He straightened, ready to leave. But just as he opened his car door, his phone buzzed.
A new message.
His father’s name flashed across the screen.
“Come to the factory. We need to talk.”
No greeting. No question. Just an order as usual.
Dante’s chest tightened. It had been weeks since his father had said more than three words to him and now, suddenly, he needed to talk? He didn't even call, why text him like he was some kind of hired assassin.
He hesitated for only a second before sliding into the driver’s seat.
The drive to the factory felt longer than usual. The city glimmered under the late morning sun, but all he could see was the road stretching ahead.
What does he want now? Dante’s thoughts circled like caged birds.
The Varon factory sat on the outskirts of Monaco, a fortress of steel and glass, where engines were born and men tried to build perfection. His father, Jean-Paul Varon, had created one of the most respected luxury car lines in Europe. Precision, speed, and legacy that was the Varon name.
At least, until Dante’s accident had cracked it.
The security guards recognized him instantly and waved him through. The massive iron gates opened, swallowing his car like a mouth closing on prey.
The scent of oil and metal filled the air. Machines hissed and clanked in the background. Somewhere deeper inside, engines were being tested that sharp roar of life Dante used to love. Now it sounded like a memory.
He walked through the main floor, the echo of his steps following him. A few workers glanced up curious and cautiously but no one dared greet him. He’d once been their hero, their golden boy. Now, he wasn’t sure what he was anymore.
When he reached the top floor, the office door was already open.
Jean-Paul Varon stood by the window, phone in hand, his back perfectly straight. His silver hair gleamed in the light, his tailored suit pressed without a crease. The man radiated control, the kind that didn’t need to be loud to terrify.
He didn’t turn when Dante entered. “Close the door,” he said simply.
The tone was sharp enough to slice through silence.
Dante did as told, the soft click of the door sealing them in.
“Morning,” he said, voice low but steady.
His father slipped the phone into his pocket and finally turned. His gaze flicked over Dante from the shoes to the faint limp that still marked his walk. “So,”
Jean-Paul said coolly, “you can walk again.”
It wasn’t a question.
Dante forced a nod. “Yeah. I can.”
“Good.”
No smile. No pride. Just that one word good in a flat and obligatory tone.
Dante waited. His father didn't say anything else.
After a long moment, he said, “You didn’t call me here to congratulate me.”
Jean-Paul’s eyes narrowed slightly, almost approving of his son’s sharpness. “No. I called you because you’re making mistakes again.”
“Again?”
His father walked toward the large desk, placing a thin folder on it. “The press conference was a few days ago. You couldn’t resist, could you? Speaking about your peace. Parading that woman like she’s the cure for everything.”
“Sienna isn’t..”
“I don’t care what she is,” Jean-Paul cut in. “Therapist, girlfriend, or distraction. She’s not your future. And she’s certainly not Varon material.”
The words stung more than Dante wanted to admit.
He met his father’s eyes. “You don’t even know her.”
“I know what women like her do,” Jean-Paul said, voice calm, almost bored. “They make weak men think they’re strong. Until they take what they came for.”
Dante felt his stomach knot. Weak men? He’d heard that phrase his whole life.
He clenched his jaw. “Is that what you think this is about? That she wants money?”
“I think,” his father said, circling the desk, “that you’ve forgotten what matters. The company is still recovering from your accident, your scandal, your absence. You need stability. You need Isabelle.”
The name hit like a slap.
Dante’s face darkened. “Don’t bring her up.”
“Why not?” Jean-Paul asked mildly. “She’s still willing. She still believes in this family even after you embarrassed her.”
“She believes in control,” Dante snapped. “Just like you. You left my mother for control and see where it almost got you.”
For the first time, his father’s expression hardened. “Enough.”
They stood there, the silence between them was thick and dangerous, father and son divided by years of unspoken disappointment.
Finally, Jean-Paul spoke again. “You’ll marry Isabelle. Or you’ll lose everything.”
Dante froze. “What?”
“You heard me,” his father said, walking back behind his desk. “The company shares, your inheritance, your mother’s holdings. They’ll go to someone more… responsible.”
Dante’s voice dropped. “You mean Luca.”
His father didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence was confirmation enough.
For a moment, Dante just stood there, his breath shallow. Luca, the half-brother whose existence had fractured everything. The reminder of the affair that drove his mother away. The man his father now wanted to crown heir.
He laughed. “You’d give him her shares?”
“If you keep making childish choices,”
Jean-Paul said. “Yes.”
Dante’s chest tightened. He could feel his pulse in his temples. “You haven’t changed,” he said softly. “You’ll trade anyone for power. Even your own blood.”
His father looked unmoved. “You’ve always been too sentimental, Dante. It makes you weak. I taught you better.”
Dante took a step back, his hand trembling slightly though he hid it in his pocket. “You didn’t teach me anything about strength,” he said. “You taught me fear.”
He turned and walked out before the man could reply.
The drive back to the villa was a blur. He didn’t
remember the traffic lights or the sea view. He only remembered his father’s voice echoing in his head. “You’ll lose everything.”
And maybe he already had.