CHAPTER 88: UNDER A SPELL

Mr. De Rossi’s teeth gnashed in rage. Dante was always quick with his tongue, always witty with his replies—something that infuriated him more than anything, even though Dante was his very own son.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. The sound was sharp, cruel, echoing off the stained walls like the bark of a hyena.

"You speak so highly of her," he sneered. "But you don’t even know what she’s capable of, Dante. Especially to you. You’re so drunk in love that if she asked you to drink poison just to make her day shine brighter, you’d blindly do it."

Dante didn’t argue. Because deep down, his father wasn’t entirely wrong. He loved Alisha beyond reason, beyond sanity. As his father was spewing words laced with venom, she was all he could think about—living inside his head, rent-free, consuming every thought.

He just wanted all of this to be over so he could go home, wrap his arms around her, and hold her close through the night.

"Are you even listening to me?" Mr. De Rossi demanded, his voice sharp, fury evident on his face.

Dante’s lips curled into a faint smirk. "Well, what’s there to say? I’m not denying that I would do it, if it meant making her day better."

Mr. De Rossi’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Day by day, he felt his grip on Dante slipping. His son was being stolen from him by a woman he considered nothing more than street trash.

"That woman is not good news," Mr. De Rossi said coldly. "James disappeared all of a sudden, and you’re not even worried?"

Dante’s smirk fell. His patience was thinning.

"If James were alive," Dante replied slowly, his gaze sharpening, "Are you worried he might reveal your dirty little secrets?"

The blood drained from Mr. De Rossi’s face instantly.

’Exactly,’ Dante thought, studying him closely. He doesn’t care about James’ life. All he cared about was keeping his skeletons buried.

"Listen to me," Mr. De Rossi snarled, grabbing Dante by the lapel of his suit and yanking him closer. His breath reeked of whiskey and power-hungry desperation. "That woman has you under some kind of spell, but you’ll have to snap out of it. The election is getting closer, and I’m certain she’s up to no good. If I don’t win this election, Dante..." He paused deliberately, his lips twisting into a slow, deliberate grin. "You know what will happen to Rhea."

Dante’s jaw twitched, his fists curling tight at his sides. His father’s grin only stretched wider, relishing the reaction.

"It’s been a while since you visited your sister, hasn’t it? She’s been asking for you. But ever since that woman came into your life, you’ve completely forgotten about Rhea."

His words dripped with mockery, with cruel delight.

Rhea.

Dante’s little sister. She was the one hidden away, kept far from the spotlight, far from the brutal world their father ruled. Unlike him and Mylo, Rhea was different—born fragile, vulnerable, in ways his father despised. Dante had raised her as though she were his daughter, protecting her from everything his father represented.

And Mr. De Rossi knew it. He knew how much Rhea meant to Dante, which was why he used her like a pawn on a chessboard.

Mr. De Rossi didn’t care about his children. They weren’t family to him—they were tools. Pawns. Pieces in his grand game of power. Dante had potential, he had always seen that. But potential meant nothing if his son refused to obey. And Dante never agreed to step into his shadow willingly.

So, his father had found a way to break him.

He locked Rhea away. He threatened to kill her if Dante didn’t submit. And Dante, despite his strength, despite his hatred, had bent like a dog on a leash. For years, he carried out his father’s dirty work. For years, he stained his hands with blood to keep his sister breathing.

Meanwhile, their mother drowned herself in luxury, too busy enjoying wealth to care where her daughter was.

Dante’s teeth grounded together. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl.

"You’d better not touch Rhea. She knows nothing about this."

Mr. De Rossi only hummed in satisfaction, like a wolf savoring a kill. This was the Dante he preferred—the obedient son, the desperate brother.

"I never said I’d harm her," he said smoothly. "As long as you remain obedient, we have a deal." He leaned back, lighting a cigar, exhaling smoke with calculated calm. "Jaime Lorenzo has completely recovered from his little bullet wound. But you..." he jabbed the cigar in Dante’s direction "...you’ll be the one to finish him off. On Election Day, that’s when it happens. This won’t be your first kill, but that day... that day matters more than any other. I don’t need to say much. You know the consequences if you fail me. Get rid of Jaime, and maybe... just maybe, I’ll let Rhea out of her confinement for a breath of fresh air."

Dante’s hand twitched near the gun at his hip. One more word—just one more—and he might put a bullet between his father’s eyes.

But he didn’t.

Because Rhea was still in his hands. He couldn’t risk it.

He told himself it was only for a little while longer. Until his father secured his presidency. Five more years, that’s what he promised. Five years, and then maybe Dante could put an end to this. But who was he fooling? He’d already spent a decade killing for this man. Was that really going to change?

And what if Alisha ever found out?

The thought made his chest tighten. She’d despise him. She’d look at him with hatred, the same way she looked at those who had ruined her life.

"You still haven’t told me anything about Peter Gonzales," Dante finally said, voice low. Peter Gonzales was Alisha’s biological father. The man who had died in the fire that consumed their home.

"He’s a dead man. What more do you want to know?" Mr. De Rossi dismissed, flicking ash from his cigar as he turned away.

It was clear—his father wasn’t going to give him anything useful. If Dante wanted answers, he’d have to dig them out himself.

By the time Dante finally reached home, exhaustion weighed on him.

Inside, Alisha was helping the butler prepare dinner, dishing plates onto the long dining table with care. The moment she saw him, her face lit up. She ran straight into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist as she hugged him tightly.

Dante caught her effortlessly, holding her as though she were the only anchor keeping him steady. But the hug wasn’t enough. Not tonight.

His lips crashed against hers, kissing her like he hadn’t seen her in years. Like the world could end tomorrow, and he wouldn’t care, so long as he had her.

By the time they parted, Alisha was breathless, her cheeks flushed pink. She tugged him by the hand toward the table, her smile soft as she served him.

The butler, sensing the intimacy in the room, excused himself quietly, leaving them alone.

Dante couldn’t take his eyes off her as she moved, her presence soothing the storm that still raged inside him.

"Stop staring and eat," she teased, sliding into the chair beside him.

"I missed you today," he admitted, voice softer than he intended as he kissed her delicate hand.

"Well, I can’t blame you," she said with a playful toss of her hair. "I’m someone worth missing."

They laughed lightly and began to eat, sharing small stories about their day. But as Alisha chewed slowly, her mind tugged at something else. Something she couldn’t ignore.

’Why does he smell like gunpowder?’