Dante

1988

Dante Delvecchio lit a cigarette outside the house in Frankford, one hand in his coat pocket, the other flexing around the lighter. A warm night for late October, the city air thick with beer and piss, a neighborhood of rowhouses and busted sidewalks where nobody asked questions. The house behind him shook with music, bass vibrating through the walls like a pulse.

She was inside. He knew it before he made the calls. He always knew where to find her. Angie Rossi was predictable in her recklessness, a creature of habit wrapped in chaos. The trick wasn't tracking her--it was getting her out before she did something Sonny would make him regret.

Dante flicked the cigarette away and stepped inside.

The party was a bad scene. Some too young to be here, men too old to be hanging around them. Low light, the stink of cheap weed and sweat, the kind of place where the walls stuck to your skin. It took him less than a minute to spot her.

Angela Rossi, laughing, pressed up against some asshole in a Flyers jacket, his hands too familiar on her waist. Her lipstick smeared, her eyes half-lidded with drink, she leaned in, whispered something in his ear, made him grin like he'd already won.

Dante was on them before either of them saw him coming. His hand closed around Angie's arm, dragging her back just as the guy turned, already squaring up.

"Get your fuckin' hands off her."

Dante hit him. Hard. A short, clean shot, knuckles meeting teeth. The guy staggered, blood in his spit, but Dante wasn't done. He shoved him against the wall, forearm pressing hard against his throat, just enough weight to let him feel how bad this could get.

"You don't know who she is," Dante said, voice even, deadly. "So I'm tellin' you now. Walk away."

The guy spat. "Fuck you."

Dante broke his nose.

The fight left him after that. He slumped to the floor, groaning, cradling his face in his hands. Around them, the party barely slowed. No one wanted to get involved.

Angie yanked her arm free. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Dante."

She was furious, which meant she was pleased. He didn't bother answering, just grabbed her wrist again and started pulling her toward the door. She struggled, but not much. Not enough.

"You like this, don't you?" she hissed, breath hot with whiskey. "Chasin' me all over Philly, draggin' me outta beds that ain't yours?"

Dante didn't answer. He dragged her outside, threw open the car door, shoved her in. She glared at him the whole way to the diner.

The booth smelled like stale grease and bad coffee. Angie sat slumped in the vinyl seat, her arms crossed, scowling at the window. She hadn't said a word since they left Frankford. That suited Dante fine.

The waitress poured two cups of coffee and left without a word. Dante pushed one across the table. "Drink the fuckin' coffee."

She ignored it. He didn't press.

A minute passed. Then another.

Finally, she sighed and took a sip, scrunching her nose. "You happy now?"

He didn't answer. Just stirred his own coffee, watching her from under his lashes.

Angie leaned back, lazy, stretching her legs under the table. "What's your deal, anyway?" she asked. "You like this? Chasin' me all over Philly?"

Dante didn't flinch. "It's my job."

She exhaled sharply, a mean smile tugging at her lips. "Bullshit." She tilted her head, studying him. "No way you're still doin' this just for Sonny."

He didn't answer. He just watched her. Silent. Steady.

They sat like that, staring each other down, the whole world outside the diner shrinking to nothing.

Neither blinked. Neither moved.

The coffee steamed between them, untouched.

Another night. Different place. Same story.

Dante leaned against the hood of his car, watching Angie from across the street. She was with her girls, all done up, laughing too loud, floating between the men at the club entrance like she owned them. A different kind of hunt tonight--Angie playing the game, pulling people into her orbit, knowing exactly how to make them desperate for her.

But it wasn't the men she was after. Not tonight.

Dante saw him before she did. The dealer. Young, cocky, eyes darting around too much for a guy trying to be invisible. She approached him like it was nothing, like they were old friends, slipping cash from her purse, waiting for the trade.

Dante moved. No hesitation, no words.

The dealer spotted him first. Something flickered across his face--recognition, then fear. Dante didn't have to say a word. The guy was gone before Angie could blink, disappearing into the night like a ghost.

Angie turned, furious. "The fuck was that?"

Dante grabbed her by the elbow, firm but careful, steering her away from the club lights. "You know what that was."

She wrenched free. "I had that handled."

"You were buyin' coke."

She rolled her eyes. "So fuckin' what?"

Dante's voice was low, controlled. "Sonny's rules."

Something in her expression flickered. Not fear--never fear--but something close to frustration. She hated when he reminded her of that, of the line she wasn't supposed to cross. The unspoken truth that, no matter how wild she got, she still had to play by someone else's rules.

She turned away, arms crossed. "You gonna take me home now?"

Dante let the question hang between them. Then: "Yeah."

She didn't fight him this time. But she didn't look at him either.

The club was one of Sonny's. Clean, respectable--on the surface, anyway. The kind of place where men in suits played cards in the back and the girls danced like they didn't care who was watching.

Dante sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey, eyes drifting toward the dance floor even when he told himself not to look.

And there she was.

Angie, hair dyed blonde this time, lips painted dark, moving like sin in a silk dress that clung to every curve. She danced with her arms above her head, lost in the music, sweat glistening on her skin, men circling like they thought they had a chance.

They didn't. She wasn't here for them.

Dante realized he was staring. Snapped his gaze back to his drink, jaw tightening, willing himself to focus on anything else.

But it was too late.

She'd seen him.

And she smiled.

The diner was quiet, just a few late-night stragglers and the hum of the jukebox in the corner. Angie sat in a booth near the window, leaning in close to the man across from her, laughing at something he said.

Dante took a seat at the counter, back to them, ordering a coffee he didn't want.

She was doing it on purpose. Flirting, touching the man's wrist, tilting her head just so. But the guy--some nobody in a cheap suit--was too focused to notice the way she kept glancing past him, looking for someone else.

Looking for Dante.

He didn't give her the satisfaction. Not right away. He kept his focus on his coffee, unreadable, unmoving.

Then, finally, he looked.

Their eyes met across the diner, heat curling between them, electric.

For the first time, she looked away.

Outside, she caught up to him. "What was that back there, starin' at me while I was talkin' with that guy?" Her voice was sharp, cutting. "Who do you think you are?"

Dante turned, voice low, tight. "You really wanna hear it?"

Then he told her. Laid it out like she hadn't heard it before.

"I pull you outta places like that because I know what happens if I don't. You think I like this? Chasin' you around like some fuckin' dog? You think I don't have better things to do?" His voice was sharp, almost shaking. "But I do it anyway. Because if I don't, who the fuck will?"

His jaw clenched, breath heavy. "I ain't your grandfather, Angie. I ain't your brother. But I sure as hell ain't some guy you can shake off, either."

He wasn't so much telling her as he was reminding himself. Angry. Jealous. A man standing too close to the edge.

The night was humid, the city thick with the smell of pavement and rain that never came. Dante found her car first--parked crooked, headlights still dimly glowing. A bad sign.

He tracked her to a brownstone, one of those old rowhouses where the stairs creaked and the neighbors knew better than to look out their windows.

Inside, muffled sounds. A bed creaking, a voice--hers. Low, breathy, lost in something.

Dante didn't knock. He pushed through the unlocked door, moved like a ghost up the stairs.

And there she was.

Angie on top of some guy, her back arching, head thrown back. The air thick with heat, the scent of sweat and liquor. The man under her was saying something, but she wasn't listening. She was somewhere else. Someone else.

Her nails raked down his chest, her breath shuddered--

And then she saw him.

Dante.

He was at the doorway, watching. And when their eyes met, her whole body froze. The man beneath her didn't notice, too lost in the moment, too unaware of the storm that had just entered the room.

Dante didn't speak. He didn't need to. He crossed the space, grabbed her wrist, and yanked her off the guy like she weighed nothing.

The man shot up. "Hey--what the fuck?!"

Dante didn't even look at him. His grip tightened on Angie.

"Get dressed." His voice was low, rough. "Now."

Angie's breath was ragged, her skin burning where he touched her. She should've fought, should've said something sharp and cruel--

But she didn't.

She reached for her dress, the moment between them heavy, electric, something neither of them could escape now.

She'd pushed him too far.

Dante's grip didn't loosen. His voice stayed low, even, but there was something in it now, something rougher.

"You know how this works," he told her.

She knew. Knew exactly how this would go, how it always went. But knowing didn't mean accepting.

She yanked her arm free, eyes flashing. "Fuck off, Dante."

And now there was no coming back.

They made it two blocks before she told him to pull over.

Dante gripped the wheel tight, jaw set, refusing to look at her. Angie wasn't crying, wasn't screaming--she just sat there, hands clenched into fists, chest rising and falling too fast. When he didn't slow down, she reached over and yanked the gear shift.

The car skidded to a stop.

They sat in silence, the city humming around them, distant sirens wailing somewhere far enough not to matter.

Then, finally, she turned to him. "Tell me you don't want me." Her voice was raw, stripped of its usual bite. "Say it."

Dante exhaled through his nose. He could lie to her. Could tell her what they both knew they were supposed to believe. That he didn't want her. That this was just duty, just Sonny's orders, just another job.

But he couldn't.

His hands flexed on the wheel. "I can't."

Angie's breath caught. She looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time.

And that was it.

They barely made it to the motel. The second they stepped inside, the door clicked shut behind them, and she was on him--wild, clawing, dragging him into her gravity. His back hit the wall, and she kissed him like she wanted to consume him. Like she needed this as much as he did.

Dante didn't stop her. He should have, but he didn't. He let her press into him, her body fever-hot, her breath ragged as her hands shoved his coat from his shoulders.

He grabbed her wrists. Held them. Just for a second. "Angie--"

"Shut up," she whispered, and when she kissed him again, softer this time, something inside him broke.

He let go.

Her dress was on the floor before he even knew he'd undone the zipper. She pulled at his belt, hands shaking, desperate. He caught her fingers, steadied them, met her gaze. Her eyes were dark, endless.

She wasn't teasing. Wasn't playing.

"You sure?" he asked, voice hoarse.

She pulled him onto the bed, answering him with her body.

Dante was drowning. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, his mouth trailing lower as she arched beneath him. Her nails raked his skin, leaving behind marks he wanted to keep. She gasped when he finally pressed against her, her breath hot against his ear.

"You're mine," she whispered, and fuck, he knew he was.

She grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him in, lips crashing against his, rough and desperate. Dante resisted for half a second--long enough to prove something to himself--but then he was gone, lost in the heat of her, in the taste of her.

Her fingers curled into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he groaned against her mouth, hands sliding down her back, pulling her closer like he could fold her into him.

"Dante," she breathed, voice wrecked, and he didn't know if it was a plea or a warning.

Didn't matter.

They were past the point of stopping.

Later, lying tangled in cheap motel sheets, the weight of what they'd done sank into the space between them.

"This is wrong," Dante muttered, staring at the ceiling.

Angie exhaled a quiet laugh, tracing circles on his bare chest. "Yeah. The worst thing we've ever done."

Neither of them moved to leave.

1988

The office was dimly lit, heavy with the scent of cigars and old leather. Sonny Rossi sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, watching Dante like he was already halfway through a conversation Dante hadn't heard.

Dante stood in front of the desk, his pulse a slow, steady drum against his ribs. He didn't speak. Sonny would talk when he was ready.

"You're not an enforcer anymore," Sonny finally said, voice even, unreadable.

Dante's stomach dropped. "Boss?"

Sonny leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes pinning him to the floor. "From now on, you're looking after Angela."

Dante clenched his jaw. He knew Angie. Knew how she ran wild through the city like a fire no one could put out. Knew she was trouble wrapped in red lips and reckless decisions.

His hands curled into fists. "With respect, Boss--"

"Not askin'," Sonny cut him off. "You go where she goes. You keep her outta trouble. If she so much as breathes in the wrong direction, you fix it before I hear about it."

Dante exhaled slowly, forcing himself to nod. "Yeah. I got it."

Sonny studied him for a long moment, then smirked, like he knew something Dante didn't. "Good. 'Cause she's your problem now."

Dante turned on his heel and left the office, closing the heavy door behind him. He barely made it two steps before Sophia stood from her seat near the window, her arms crossed, watching him with something between concern and resignation.

At only thirty-four, Sophia didn't look old enough to have an eighteen-year-old daughter, but there she was, the mother of a hurricane. She had the same sharp cheekbones, the same dark, knowing eyes as her father--eyes that followed Dante as he walked past her.

Inside the office, Sonny lit a cigar, exhaling smoke in slow curls. He didn't look at his daughter when he spoke. "It's done."

Sophia hesitated. "You really think he can handle her?"

Sonny leaned back in his chair, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Dante will tame her," he said simply. "Do for Angie what I couldn't do for you."

1989

Dante sat on the edge of the motel bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the cigarette burning between his fingers. Angie paced in front of him, arms crossed tight, frustration rolling off her in waves.

"We can't tell him," she snapped. "Dante, you know what happens if we do."

He took a drag, exhaled slow. "Yeah. I know."

Her voice dropped, pleading now. "Then why are we even talkin' about it?"

Dante glanced up at her. "Because we don't have a choice."

She let out a harsh laugh, shaking her head. "Like hell we don't. We run. Tonight. Right now. We get in the car, and we keep drivin' until we're ghosts."

Dante snuffed out his cigarette, rubbed his face. "That's not how these things work, Angie."

She stopped pacing, her hands trembling where they gripped her arms. "Then how?" Her voice cracked. "How does this end?"

He didn't answer right away. Because they both already knew.

Sonny Rossi sat behind his desk, the weight of the moment pressing down like the smoke curling from his cigar. Across from him, Dante stood stiff-backed, his jaw clenched. Angie sat beside him, arms folded, leg bouncing--a tell of nerves she couldn't quite suppress.

"Say it," Sonny ordered, voice like gravel.

Dante swallowed hard. "We're together. Have been for months."

Sonny didn't react. Just watched them, impassive, unreadable. He let the silence stretch until it felt unbearable. Then, finally--

"You'll marry her. You'll father and raise the next generation of the Rossi Family. You'll make her your wife."

Angie's breath caught, but she didn't speak. Didn't argue. Not now.

Dante held Sonny's gaze. "And if I don't?"

Sonny took another slow drag from his cigar, exhaled. "Then I put a bullet in your head."

The room stayed deathly still.

Carina Marie sat in the corner, silent, watching. She had always been there, always listening. But she said nothing. Not yet.

Sonny leaned forward, tapping his cigar against the ashtray. "You think this is a punishment? You think I'd have let some nobody near my granddaughter? You're in, Delvecchio. There's no getting out now."

Dante exhaled, slow. He already knew. He'd known the moment he kissed Angie that this would be his fate. There had never been another way this ended.

He looked at Angie. She was staring at Sonny, lips parted, the fight in her eyes flickering between defiance and something raw, something close to realization.

Dante reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. He turned back to Sonny and nodded once.

"Alright."

As Dante and Angie stepped out of the office, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on them, Carina Marie remained seated. She watched the door close behind them, then turned to Sonny.

"It worked," she said quietly.

Sonny smirked, taking another drag from his cigar. "You're goddamn right it worked."

2016

The house smelled like wine and simmering sauce, but the mood was thick with something far heavier. Angela Delvecchio stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, hip cocked, her face a storm waiting to break.

Eighteen-year-old Carrie Delvecchio slouched against the counter, arms folded over her chest like armor. Across from her, Adelina Graziano sat at the kitchen table, tapping a cigarette against the wood grain, waiting for the explosion.

Angie exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled. "You wanna tell me what the fuck you were thinking?"

Carrie rolled her eyes. "It wasn't a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" Angie's voice sharpened. "You and Adelina boost a car, tear through South Philly like it's the goddamn Indy 500, and you crash it into the fuckin' Wawa on Broad? You don't think that's a big deal?"

Tiny Adelina smirked around her cigarette. "Technically, we only clipped the sign."

Angie turned her glare on Adelina. "Don't fuckin' test me, Addie."

Carrie's jaw tightened, but she didn't back down. "What, like you never did stupid shit when you were my age? Don't act like you were some fuckin' saint."

Angie slammed her hand against the counter, making both of them jump. "I wasn't, and that's the goddamn point! You wanna end up like me? Like your father?"

Carrie flinched. That was a low blow, and they both knew it. The tension hung heavy in the air.

Angie softened, just slightly. "You got a future, Carina Marie. And I am not gonna watch you throw it away."

Carrie's throat worked, but she swallowed whatever sharp response was ready to fly. She looked away, her arms tightening around herself. "Yeah. Whatever."

Angie sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Get outta my sight. Both of you."

Carrie pushed off the counter, brushing past Angie as she stormed down the hall. Adelina followed, but not before throwing Angie a cocky grin. "We'll be more careful next time."

Angie grabbed Adelina by the wrist, yanking her in close. "There won't be a next time, Addie. Or so help me God, I'll make sure you regret it."