Filthy Marcellos: Dante

by Bethany-Kris

  This entire charade could have been avoided had Dante realized this sooner and his very valuable fucking time wouldn’t be wasted. Nothing pissed him off more than someone wasting his goddamn time.

  “This is done,” Dante said, pushing his seat out and standing.

  None of the men stood with him. It was yet another sign that not one of them felt as though they were the person holding the power.

  Sickening.

  Giovanni glanced up at his older brother with a furrowed brow. “But—”

  “But nothing,” Dante snapped, his irritation swelling.

  “Dante, we don’t have answers, yet. I want to know why there is shit in my streets that isn’t mine and is taking away business and cash from my crew.”

  “Exactly.” Dante flicked his hand dismissively at the guests who had done little during the sit-down but talk them in circles and piss him off. “And from these fools, we’re not going to get anything.”

  “Hey,” Gaetano growled. “Fools is a pretty strong word for a small group of men who infiltrated a quarter of your territory in less than a couple of months and managed to undercut your bestselling product by nearly half.”

  Dante’s gaze narrowed in on the asshole he wanted to make choke on the barrel of his gun. Playtime was over. The Marcello Cosa Nostra didn’t bother to make nice with little start-up crews like this. They simply took them out.

  It was a call he would have to make. Not that he particularly liked it, as it was always better to make peace than spill blood in their world, but he would make the choice, nonetheless.

  “When the Marcellos demanded this meeting, we did so with the intention of speaking boss to boss,” Dante said, keeping a calm façade but boiling on the inside. “That was the agreement set up for this night. Instead, what we found was a bunch of thugs playing with drugs who clearly don’t have the first clue about the force they’ve just come up against in the Marcellos. So, we’re done here. There’s nothing more to talk about.”

  “Oh?” Gaetano asked.

  “Yes, oh. It’s like this, I gave your boss the chance to speak with me face to face so he could explain his motives for being in our streets and he didn’t come. Whatever his reasons for not showing, I don’t give a good goddamn. Shunning a boss is not acceptable in Cosa Nostra and it doesn’t make a single difference to me if you are la famiglia or not. When you come into my territory, you’re automatically agreeing to play by my rules.”

  Something akin to a sneer twisted at Carlos’ lips beside Gaetano. “But you’re not actually the boss, either, are you, Dante?”

  “Acting boss is just as good as being boss. It means I make all the calls. And since you’re sitting in a club my brother owns, on streets we run, and in a territory our family controls, it would be wise for you to remember you are not the one with the power here.”

  Lucian’s lips drew thin as he too stood from the table. “You’re sure this is what you want to do, Dante?”

  Dante nodded. “This is it. Care to finish this nonsense out for me? I need a fucking drink after this shit show.”

  “Will do,” Lucian said.

  “Do be sure they understand the consequences of this farce, too. It’s a fucking travesty when people waste my time. Like I don’t have enough damn problems as it is.”

  “Got it.”

  Dante left the group at the table without a backward glance. Their nonsense was dropped from his mind the moment he decided they weren’t worth the effort to keep trying to plow them for more information.

  At the bar, he rapped his knuckles down to the top and caught the bartender’s attention. “Crown. Three fingers. Neat.”

  “Coming up, Boss,” the guy replied.

  It didn’t matter how many times Dante was called that, it still hadn’t quite sunk in. Everyone else around him didn’t seem surprised at the shift going on in the Marcello family but him. Antony had set him up well.

  Dante suppressed his smile, turning his back to the bar so he could watch his older brother lay into the idiots at the table across the room. Quietly enough that no one else could hear, but guessing by the severe expression Lucian sported as he railed into the men, his brother was doing what he did best: inciting fear.

  Maybe he should have stayed at the table just for the show.

  Out of the corner of his eye, the curve of a trim waist melding into shapely hips that were covered by a tight bodycon-style black dress drew Dante’s attention.

  Dark red curls hanging below her shoulders framed the woman’s profile, but did little to hide her features. Skin the color of peachy cream, ruby colored lips just full enough to set into a natural pout, and high cheekbones gave her the appearance of sweetness and innocence. But her body, that dress, and the black, peep-toe five-inch stilettos tapping a beat to the barstool spoke entirely of sin and sexuality. She kept her gaze on the bar top, dark lashes fanning over her cheeks while the ghost of a smile played at the edges of her mouth.

  Dante’s throat tightened right along with his slacks, and the longer he stared at the woman, the more his interest peaked. The night had been a shitty one, so why not end it in a good way? Like between that woman’s thighs.

  Dante turned as the bartender produced his drink of choice. “On the house, Boss.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sipping on the whiskey, Dante pushed away from the bar, interest fully focused on the woman three stools away, and made his way down. When he slid onto the stool beside the redhead, a sexy, almost knowing, smirk curved her lips.

  Her hazel eyes regarded Dante from the side, taking him in slowly. She looked him up and down and didn’t even try to conceal the fact she was. His lust burned a little hotter at the sight. There was something about women who knew what they wanted and didn’t hide their intentions that turned him on like nothing fucking else.

  Red manicured fingernails, the same shade as her hair and lips, dragged along her outer thigh to the hem of her dress, forcing Dante’s stare downward.

  Cristo, she had gorgeous legs.

  He bet they would look even better wrapped around his waist.

  “Are you drinking?” Dante asked, his tone rough.

  “Not tonight.”

  Dante blinked, stunned. The thick Italian accent coating her words set him back a step. He hadn’t expected that and for some reason, it put him on edge.

  “It’s a club, dolcezza. There’s isn’t much else to do on a Thursday night when you’re sitting at the bar.”

  She smiled sweetly—too sweetly. “Oh, I’m doing more than sitting, bello. And I don’t need to drink to do it.”

  Her voice was demure, her words rolling off her tongue quietly, but surely. The straightness of her back in the stool spoke of class while her blatant regard of him gave an air of confidence.

  She dazed him.

  Dante wasn’t accustomed to that.

  A soft pat-pat-pat sound gained his attention to where her finger hit down on the bar. On the inside of her left index finger, one word was tattooed in fancy black script: Queen.

  The edginess burrowed in deep again. When things felt off for Dante, they usually were. This woman made his insides scream it. Both in a good and bad way.

  Dante chanced a glance back at the table where his brothers were standing, readying to leave as they pulled on their jackets. They were still talking, though. But the man who had annoyed Dante the most—Gaetano—wasn’t paying Lucian or Gio any mind. No, he was watching the woman at Dante’s side.

  Not with interest, as if she may have caught his eye by chance, but instead, he looked at her with the familiarity of a friend.

  Dante’s thoughts raced when what he really needed was for his mind to be silent. During the entire meeting, none of the men had spoken of their boss in direct context or out of it. The Marcello brothers had continually referred to the unknown leader of the group as a he because that’s what they assumed they were dealing with in whatever game the men were playing.

  Dante was only now realizing they
were wrong in doing so.

  “You know, you surprised me,” the woman said, drawling her words out with a sensuality that could make a man’s mouth water. Again, she dragged her gaze from Dante’s leather shoes to his green eyes. “You’re much more handsome in person than I thought you would be, Dante Marcello.”

  Three things in life made a man most vulnerable: sex, love, and children.

  Sex occasionally led to love, and for some, it also led to children. As Dante was incapable of having children, he had no interest in love. Sex, however … well, that was something he simply couldn’t do without.

  It was just too damn bad the need left him exposed, and it had to be now he learned the lesson to never think with his cock when business was in play.

  The woman swiveled fast on her chair at the same time Dante lurched toward her. He found himself between her thighs, crowding her back forcefully to the edge of the bar, nearly pushing her off the stool. The magnum he always kept hidden at his back in a holster was seated in his palm before the woman could speak and the barrel pressed under her chin at her throat.

  Dante ticked the gun at her jawline, making her tilt her head back under the weight. She stared him head-on, unabashed and unafraid, smirking mischievously. Her hazel eyes danced with amusement and menace.

  He hated how her unfazed attitude at his warning only made him hot.

  Something sharp nipped at Dante’s groin. Without needing to look down, he could feel the blade of a knife threatening to cut into his balls.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  “Go on, cock your hammer back, bello,” she urged low. “You wouldn’t be the first to try and take a bite out of me, Dante. I’m not a little girl who frightens easily.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Dante demanded.

  “Catrina Danzi.”

  His gun dug harder into her jaw. Her knife reacted accordingly at his sac.

  “What do you want from me?”

  Catrina flashed white teeth in a wicked smile. “I heard you need a wife.”

  Dante nearly balked. “What did you just say?”

  “Oh, I think you heard me perfectly well, Dante.”

  As her knife drew a line upwards across his cock, Dante realized he was as hard as steel. “Remove your fucking knife.”

  “I don’t think so. See, your gun is still at my throat and that isn’t very nice.” Catrina gave him another sinful smile, adding, “Besides, I think you like it.”

  Dante cocked the hammer back on his gun, completely unbothered by the few patrons milling around. He had no idea if his brothers had taken notice of his current situation or not, but at the moment, his focus was entirely on this strangely beautiful woman and her knife at his dick.

  “I dislike guns in general,” Catrina said, tilting her head to the side as if they were having a conversation about dinner. “They’re heavy and loud. Barely anyone questions a small knife, but a gun, however, someone always takes issue. And, with a woman like me, there’s no need for a gun.”

  Dante couldn’t stop himself from watching her hazel eyes as he asked, “Why’s that?”

  “Because men are predictable, and with a face like mine, they can’t help but let me close. Once they do …”

  “They’re fucked.”

  She had drawn him in like fucking prey.

  And he let her.

  “Exactly. Put your gun down and we can talk.”

  Dante didn’t. “Those men, they’re yours, yes?”

  “They are and I was quite surprised you let their nonsense go on for as long as you did.”

  “I was waiting for one of them to slip up.”

  “I suspected,” she said with a sigh. “They didn’t, of course. I’ve trained them well.”

  Dante had another thought, and it irked him. “It could have been my father here tonight at this meeting and not me, Catrina.”

  “Call me Cat.”

  Dante’s cock twitched at the way her name rolled off her own damn tongue. Christ, how could one woman piss him off and turn him on at the same time? It was disgusting.

  “It could have been my father,” Dante repeated, needing to get far away from his thoughts.

  “No, I knew it would be you,” Catrina whispered.

  Good God.

  Dante felt an uncontrollable urge to put a distance between his body and Catrina. The part of his brain that wondered what her mouth would feel like as he fucked it made him stay pressed at the junction of her thighs with her knife at his balls.

  “Word travels fast in our business, Dante. Seems you’ve been taking the reins a lot lately, but a little more talk went along with it. To be boss, you need a wife. Something you don’t have and seemingly, you don’t want to be married if your rebuttals on the issue are anything to consider.”

  “How do you know my opinion on marriage?”

  “Another thing my pretty face gets me when I want it to is information. What could a sweet woman really do to a Marcello, hmm? She’s only curious, they think. Stupid men.”

  Dante’s throat felt thick. “You sought me out for a proposal?”

  “In a sense,” Catrina murmured. “I have something you need, and you have something I need. It might work and we won’t know if we don’t discuss it.”

  “I don’t know you,” Dante forced out. “And after tonight, I don’t think I want to.”

  “You really need to drop your gun, bello.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “No, I think handsome fits you quite well.” Dante annoyance grew, but before he could respond, Catrina’s knife disappeared from his groin. She slipped the blade into a sheath at her thigh. Catrina waved behind Dante, undoubtedly at the men she had brought along to play their games. “This is just a taste of what I’m capable of.”

  Not that he wanted to, but since she had removed her weapon, Dante replaced his inside the holster at his back. “I don’t appreciate you sending your men in your place.”

  “Not just my men, Dante. This entire thing. The drugs; your streets; and the information. You still haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”

  Dante blinked, unsure of what she was asking him. Catrina’s finger tapped to the center of his chest, sending sparks blooming across his skin. The tattooed word on her slender, pale digit caught his eye again.

  “Catrina Danzi,” she repeated.

  “That name rings no bells.”

  “To the outside world, it shouldn’t. If it did, I wouldn’t be very good at my job, Dante.” She struck her finger on his chest again. “I think I’ll head out and take my men with me.”

  Dante stepped back. “Do that.”

  Catrina slid off the stool with a learned grace that Dante would appreciate if she were any other woman and not one that had seriously fucked with his head and time tonight. Passing him by, she turned at his shoulder, wiggling her fingers teasingly.

  “For you, it’s Cat, but they’ll know me better as Queen.”

  Stunned, Dante observed the men get up from their respective seats and follow the redhead out of the club without a word. Lucian and Gio, however, were only a few feet behind Dante, both sporting expressions churned with anger and shock. Some patrons were being herded out of the club by men Dante recognized as his own … or rather, his father’s.

  “Did I hear that woman right?” Gio asked when the coast was clear.

  “Depends on what you heard,” Dante replied quietly.

  “A lot,” Lucian said for his brother.

  Dante lifted his shoulders in response, but even the action felt robotic. He didn’t like being tricked and he didn’t like being cornered. Dante was neither a circus show nor an animal needing trained. That woman—Catrina—had treated him like both.

  It pissed him off more.

  “Plan remains the same,” Dante said, reverting back to his cool demeanor. “I want them off my streets.”

  “Even if it’s a woman running them?” Lucian asked.

  “Especially because it’s her running them.”


  Chapter Three

  Catrina Danzi required but one thing in life to keep her happy and not for the reason most would suspect: men.

  She didn’t need or want their intimacy. Very little about a man interested her enough to keep her attention. The few men she had forged relationships with, physical or otherwise, had been either a pawn in someone’s game, or dead before morning.

  They didn’t call her a black widow, though.

  No, they called her the queen.

  The only reason she required men in her life was for business.

  Being a successful Queen Pin was partly about understanding the environment of the work, then the product came along, and finally, the most important of them all was the ability to find the clients. Cat was mighty good at finding hers. She always had been.

  It wasn’t hard when her looks drew attention, her charm closed the gap, and her product kept them coming back for more. She fit in to high society without gaining attention to her place. If a man—any man so long as he had the right amount of cash and clout—needed her to be the ghost supplying his substance indulgence, she was the perfect fit.

  She didn’t touch the men, though. A good Queen didn’t get involved, certainly not emotionally, and definitely not with a client. Feelings and business didn’t work, regardless of how some men tried to convince her differently. If just one of her clients would realize his worth to her was only as good as the bottom-line on his bank account, maybe they’d get the hint.

  Right. She doubted it.

  Cat had a signature. One she was known for by every client who had her on speed dial. Beyond the bodycon dresses, red lips, and stiletto heels that accentuated her sexuality and held attention, they had all come to know her as Queen.

  Just like that. Simple and clean. Kind of like her business prerogative.

  Well, as clean as dealing drugs could be, that was.

  It had taken Cat a decade to amass the specialty clientele hidden in her black book. No, those weren’t just for hookers and madams. Cat had her own list. Politicians, high profile judges, celebrities, and influential families from all over the country lined her pages.