Chapter 2: Dante

When the message from my father came through, I didn’t go home. I didn’t pack my things, didn’t pause to think it over. Instead, I pointed my bike toward the only place that ever felt close to home anymore: the bar.

The Devil’s Forge wasn’t just a bar; it was the heartbeat of my motorcycle club, a chaotic mix of roaring laughter, clinking glasses, and the metallic hum of motorcycles lined up outside like sentinels. Inside, the air reeked of spilled beer, leather, and faintly of motor oil. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real. The kind of place where lies didn’t last long, and loyalties were etched in blood and grease.

I pushed through the door, the familiar creak of wood and the low murmur of voices grounding me. My uncle, Matteo, sat at his usual table in the corner. He leaned back in his chair, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, his graying beard scruffy but neatly trimmed. He saw me before I reached him, lifting his drink in a silent greeting.

“You look like hell,” Matteo said as I dropped into the seat across from him.

“Thanks,” I muttered, signaling for a drink.

“So,” Matteo said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “The prodigal son returns. Or thinks about it, anyway.”

I didn’t respond immediately. My fingers drummed against the table as I tried to find the right words. Finally, I just said it. “He wants me back.”

Matteo raised a brow, unimpressed. “And you’re actually considering it?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

That wasn’t entirely true. I’d spent years convincing myself I didn’t care about my father, that I’d never go back to the world I’d walked away from. The military had been my escape, and the club—my family. My real family. But the message had stirred something in me. An itch I couldn’t scratch.

“You know why I left,” I said after a moment. “He was a goddamn tyrant. Always shouting, always demanding more. And after Mom…”

Matteo’s face softened slightly, the usual sharpness of his gaze dulling with something that looked like regret. “After your mom, he was worse,” he said quietly. “I know.”

My chest tightened, but I kept my expression neutral. My mother’s death was a wound I didn’t let anyone poke at. It was easier to pretend it was just one more thing I’d buried along with her.

“Why now?” I asked. “What does he want?”

Matteo snorted. “Your father always wants something, Dante. Power, control, legacy—it’s all the same to him.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “But if you’re asking why he’s calling you back now, it’s probably because he’s desperate.”

“Desperate?”

“The Marino name isn’t what it used to be,” Matteo said, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Your father’s empire is crumbling. Rivals nipping at his heels, alliances fraying at the edges. He needs you, kid. Your name, your connections, your resources.”

My resources. That was a laugh. He hadn’t given a damn when I was building the club from the ground up, when I was putting together a network that could rival the mafia’s. Now, suddenly, I was useful.

I clenched my fists under the table, the anger simmering low but steady. “And what do you think? Should I go back?”

Matteo’s gaze darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I think…” He hesitated, then sighed. “I think there’s more to your mom’s death than any of us knew at the time.”

The words hit me like a sucker punch. I straightened in my seat, my heartbeat spiking. “What are you talking about?”

“Couple weeks ago,” Matteo said, his voice gruff, “I ran into an old friend of your mom’s. Someone who knew her before your father sank his claws into her. She told me she’d overheard something back then—something about your mom asking too many questions, pushing too hard against the way your father ran things. And then, not long after that, she was gone.”

A cold knot formed in my stomach. “You’re saying… he had her killed?”

“I’m saying it’s worth looking into,” Matteo said carefully. “And the only way you’re gonna get answers is if you go back.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, my grip on reality suddenly unsteady. I’d spent two years trying to forget, to move on. And now Matteo was handing me a reason to dig it all up again.

He gave me a hard look, his voice softening. “You need to decide if you can handle whatever truth you find, Dante. Because once you start looking, you can’t unsee it.”

I nodded slowly, my jaw tight. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” Matteo grinned, the tension lifting slightly. “And while you’re at it, enjoy the reunion. I hear you’ve got a new little sister now.”

I snorted. “Step-sister. Barely counts.”

“She’s cute, though,” Matteo said, his grin widening. “Saw her once when I was over at your father’s place. All wide eyes and attitude. Like a kitten that thinks it’s a lion.”

“She’s probably a spoiled brat,” I muttered, but Matteo’s words stuck with me as I rode home later that night.

—

The Marino mansion loomed in the distance, its lights glowing like a beacon. I killed the engine of my bike at the bottom of the driveway, letting the quiet settle over me for a moment. The thought of stepping back inside that house made my skin crawl, but Matteo’s words kept ringing in my ears.

If there was even a chance that my father had something to do with my mother’s death, I had to know.

I swung my leg over the bike and started up the driveway, the sound of gravel crunching under my boots oddly loud in the still night. The house was buzzing with activity; I could hear the faint hum of voices and music drifting through the open windows. A party. Of course. My father never missed an opportunity to flex his power.

I slipped through the front doors, the familiar scent of leather and wood polish hitting me like a punch to the gut. The years hadn’t changed much. Same cold elegance, same suffocating grandeur.

I was halfway through the main hall when I heard her voice.

“I hate all men,” she was saying, her tone dripping with disdain. “They’re childish, boring, and crude.”

I paused, curiosity piqued despite myself. Turning slightly, I caught sight of her.

My first thought was that Matteo had undersold it.

She wasn’t a kitten; she was a tiger.

Her ash-blonde hair cascaded in soft waves, framing a delicate face with sharp hazel eyes that gleamed with challenge. Her lips were painted a soft pink, but there was nothing soft about the way she stood, her back straight and her chin tilted defiantly.

And then there was her dress. Black, sleek, with a slit that revealed a long, toned leg.

When she saw me, she visibly took a step back.

So this was my stepsister.

I smirked slightly, leaning against the wall as her words replayed in my head.

“I hate all men.”

Arrogant little thing.

She clearly doesn't know how to respect her elders. If I could, I would grab her by the ankles and drape her legs over my shoulders, so I could see her wet pussy and find out if her little cunt is as dishonest as her mouth.

But then again, looking at her now, I couldn’t really blame her. She probably had the right to.