Impure Love (Dark Mafia Duet #2)

3. Dante

3

DANTE

T he leather chair creaks under my weight as I lean back, surveying the opulence of my office. As the Don of the Russo crime family, I sit high in my office waiting on my men's report regarding the murder at that penthouse last week.

Gold-framed portraits of long-dead ancestors line the walls, their eyes forever judging. Heavy velvet drapes block out the chaos of the world beyond, cocooning me in luxury and power. My desk, a massive mahogany beast, is cluttered with files and a crystal decanter of scotch.

Marco, my right hand man stands to my right, his suit as impeccable as mine. Across from me, Antonio shifts nervously next to Luca, his eyes flicking between me and the others. He knows the stakes. Everyone does.

"Cleanup went smooth," Luca starts, his voice steady. "No traces left behind."

Antonio nods. "Body's gone. Disposed of in the usual spot. No one's gonna find it."

"Good." I clasp my hands in front of me, my gaze locking onto Antonio. "And the witnesses?"

"None, boss. Just some guests who were too drunk to notice anything," Antonio says, his voice faltering slightly.

Luca glances at me, then back at Antonio. "And the cameras?"

"Disabled before anything went down. No footage."

I let the silence hang, watching the unease spread across Antonio's face. He wipes his brow, a nervous tick I've seen a hundred times. He knows I'm waiting for something, but he doesn't know what.

"Any loose ends?" I finally ask, my tone cold and measured. My mind shifts to the girl, the memory of her fear gripping my dick.

"None, boss," Antonio repeats, but his voice wavers. "We covered everything."

"Are you sure?" My eyes narrow, my hands tightening into fists. "Because if there's one thing I hate more than loose ends, it's fucking liars."

Antonio's face pales. "I'm sure, boss. Positive."

I lean forward, the leather chair groaning under the shift. "Good. Because if I find out otherwise, you'll be joining our friend in the usual spot."

The room goes silent again, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Luca clears his throat, breaking the oppressive stillness.

"What's next, boss?"

I lean back again, letting the chair creak in protest. "We keep an eye on things. Make sure nothing else comes up. And Antonio?"

"Yes, boss?" His voice is barely above a whisper.

"Don't fuck this up."

He nods vigorously, relief washing over his features. "I won't, boss. I swear."

I dismiss them with a wave, and they file out of the room, leaving me alone with Marco and my thoughts. My jaw tightens as I think back to that night.

I lean back in my leather chair, the scent of polished wood and aged whiskey filling the air. My eyes trace the intricate patterns of the Persian rug beneath my feet.

It's been a week since I saw her—since those wide, terrified eyes locked onto mine. Her fear rolled off her in waves, intoxicating, and so goddamn irresistible. I haven't been able to get her out of my head.

I drum my fingers on the desk, the polished mahogany cool under my touch. What was it about her? Why can’t I let this go? The logical part of me knows she should have been eliminated, but there was something about her that made me hesitate.

Im Dante Russo, I don’t hesitate. My trigger finger was ready. That woman should have never been in the room. The entryway was obscured for a reason. And yet just as the man’s body dropped at my feet, the warmth of his blood spilling and filling the space, the door opened and I found myself consumed with the sight of her.

Had it been any of my men in that position, I would have shot them for letting a potential witness get away. And yet, here I am, a confirmed kill under my belt and the witness out in the world with no idea the fuckeery she stumbled into.

I let her live, and I don't even understand why. There’s only one way to figure this out. I have to have her.

She's the one loose end I can't seem to tie up. But another part, a darker, more primal part, wants to see that fear turn into something else.

Marco's eyes linger on me, curiosity gnawing at him. I decide it's time to give him something to chew on.

"Marco,” I say, breaking the silence. “ I need you to find someone.” I sit forward, as his brows shoot up.

"Someone?" he echoes, a hint of surprise. "Who?"

"A woman," I reply, my tone clipped. "She was at the event. Catering staff. Late twenties, Black, curly hair, brown eyes. Slim build."

Marco's eyebrows shoot up. "You saw her?"

I nod. "She saw me."

He doesn’t need more details to understand the implications. "And you want me to...?"

"Get a hold of the event footage. Track down her name. Find out everything about her," I order, my voice calm but leaving no room for argument. "I want to know where she lives, who her friends are, what she eats for breakfast. Everything."

Marco tilts his head, his expression turning serious. "This girl... she's important?"

"She witnessed something she shouldn’t have," I say, locking eyes with him. "And now I want her. She’s mine."

He nods, accepting the gravity of the situation. "Consider it done. Anything else?"

"Keep it discreet. I don’t want any noise. And Marco?"

"Yeah?"

"Bring me results, not excuses."

He smirks, the confidence returning to his eyes. "When have I ever given you an excuse?"

"Just get me everything on her," I say.

With a nod, Marco’s out the door before I can even finish my sentence. Good man.

I lean back, fingers steepled, my mind racing with images of her. Her fear, so raw and palpable, had stirred something in me.

The way she stood there, trapped in my gaze was disarming. I hesitated, when I should have killed her and been done with it. But there was something about the fear that rippled between us. It didn’t matter that there was a man spilling blood at my feet, I’m happy , possessing that delicious fear.

She was different. Intriguing. It was heady and distracting. I froze for the first time in my life, and she got away.

The moment she ran, her fear etched into my memory. The way her eyes widened, the tremble in her step. I should have shotr death right then. But no, her fear and beauty hooked me. I want her. I need her. To fucking own her and that delicious fear.

I lean back in my chair, a small smirk playing on my lips. The game has begun.

The thrill of the hunt courses through me, a primal satisfaction in knowing she has no idea what's coming. She’s out there, hiding, thinking she's safe. But she’s mine now. The smirk on my face deepens as I imagine the moment our paths cross again. The moment she realizes there’s no escape.

My mind races with possibilities, each one more enticing than the last. I imagine her in her apartment, curtains drawn, heart pounding with every creak and groan of the building. She’s probably replaying that night over and over, the fear gnawing at her. Perfect.

I stand, stretching my legs, the polished floor cool beneath my feet. The room is a sanctuary of power and control, every object a reminder of my authority. I walk to the window, parting the heavy drapes just enough to see the city skyline. The lights twinkle like stars, a stark contrast to the darkness that lurks within me.

This city is mine. Every corner, every shadow. And soon, she will be too. I close the drapes, the room plunging back into its comforting gloom.

I return to my desk, picking up the crystal decanter and pouring a generous measure of scotch. The amber liquid catches the light, a moment of clarity in the darkness. I take a sip, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. The game has begun, and I always win.

The next day, Marco strides into my office, a thick manila folder clutched in his hand. He’s punctual, as always. I appreciate that. He places the folder on my desk and takes a step back, waiting for my acknowledgment.

"Got everything?" I ask, eyeing the folder.

"Everything you asked for and more," he replies, a hint of pride in his voice.

I flip open the folder, my eyes scanning the contents. Her name jumps out at me: Aliyah Blackwood. The name sends a shiver down my spine.

"Aliyah," I say, savoring the name. It’s even better when it rolls off my tongue. I can’t wait to fucking own her. "Tell me everything."

"She’s 25," Marco begins, "Lives with a roommate named Sophia. No close family nearby. She grew up in the foster system. No college education."

I nod, absorbing the information. "And her job?"

"She quit the catering company a week ago," Marco says. "Probably right after she saw... you know."

"Smart girl," I mutter, more to myself than to Marco. "What else?"

Marco continues, "She hasn’t left her apartment in days. I've got footage from outside her building. She’s holed up inside, probably scared shitless."

"Anything on the roommate?" I ask, leaning back in my chair, the leather creaking under me.

"Sophia’s 24, works at the same catering company. Seems to be a good friend, maybe a bit too protective," Marco says. "Could be a problem."

"We'll deal with her if we have to," I say dismissively. "For now, focus on Aliyah. I want her scared but not desperate. Desperate people do stupid things."

"Understood," Marco replies.

Marco leaves, closing the door softly behind him. I pick up the folder again, running my fingers over the edges. Aliyah Blackwood. Such a fucking cock-tease of a name, rolling off my tongue like a promise. I can almost taste the fear she must be drowning in right now.

I lean back in my chair, savoring the feeling of power coursing through me, like a potent drug I can never get enough of. The smooth leather creaks beneath me as I stretch out, basking in the control I wield over every corner of my empire. The sensation is intoxicating, a reminder that I am the master of my fate—and soon, the master of Aliyah's as well.

The city sprawls out below me, a maze of lights and shadows. Each one of those lights represents someone who thinks they’re untouchable, someone who hasn’t yet felt my reach. Aliyah is just one of many, but there’s something about her that’s different. Something that makes me want to break her, to mold her fear into something I can control.

I flip through the folder again, studying the photos of her. She’s beautiful in a raw, untamed way. Not like the polished, plastic women I’m used to. There’s a fire in her eyes, even in the candid shots. A fire I’m going to enjoy extinguishing.

The name Aliyah Blackwood echoes in my mind, a delicious promise of what’s to come. She has no idea what’s coming for her. She’ll see soon enough just who Dante Russo is, what it means to cross my path.