Chapter 4 : Six months ago (3)

The politician was dead.

Dante ended the call and pocketed his phone. Across the table, Alexei was watching him with that carefully neutral expression that meant he had opinions he wasn't sharing.

"Clean?" Dante asked.

"Car accident. Single vehicle. He was coming home from his mistress's apartment, blood alcohol over the limit." Alexei's voice was flat, professional. "Unfortunate."

Unfortunate. The word sat in the air between them, polite and meaningless.

The politician had been skimming from their operations for six months. Dante had given him three warnings, each one progressively less polite. The man had ignored all of them, apparently under the impression that his position made him untouchable.

People who thought they were untouchable died surprised.

"The vote?" Dante asked.

"His replacement will be more cooperative." Alexei paused. "You want to review the candidate list?"

"Tomorrow." Dante stood. His shoulders ached. The meeting had run four hours, most of it negotiating with men who mistook patience for weakness. "I'm done for tonight."

"You want company?"

"No."

Alexei didn't look offended. He never did. That was why Dante kept him around. Well. One of the reasons. The other was that Alexei was ruthlessly competent and loyal in a way that couldn't be bought, only earned.

Dante left through the restaurant's back exit. His car was waiting, engine running, driver alert. The club was three blocks away. He could have driven, but walking cleared his head, and he had two security trailing him anyway. Invisible but present.

Club Imperium was loud when he arrived, pulsing bass and artificial smoke and people who had money but not quite enough taste. Dante owned a third of the building. The owner owed him favors that would take years to repay. The VIP section on the third floor was his whenever he wanted it.

He wanted it now.

The bouncer saw him coming and opened the velvet rope without being asked. Dante climbed the stairs, nodded at the woman stationed at the VIP entrance, and walked down the private corridor to his usual room.

The room was exactly as he'd left it last week. Leather furniture, low lighting, a bar cart stocked with alcohol he'd never drink. Soundproofed well enough that the club's music was a distant pulse instead of an assault.

Dante sat down on the couch and let himself breathe.

Killing didn't bother him. It never had. His father had made sure of that, broken that hesitation out of him before Dante turned thirteen. What bothered him was the performance of it, the negotiations and warnings and careful political theater that had to happen before the actual violence.

His father would have just killed the man in the first meeting.

Dante was more patient than his father. More controlled. That was supposed to be an improvement.

He wasn't sure it was.

His phone buzzed. Dante ignored it. Whatever it was could wait until tomorrow. Tonight he was going to sit here in the dark and quiet and not think about politicians or negotiations or the fact that his entire empire ran on violence dressed up as business.

The door opened.

Dante's hand went to the gun under his jacket before his conscious mind registered the movement. He was standing, weapon drawn, safety off, before he processed what he was seeing.

An omega. Stumbling into his private room. Clearly in heat.

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