The tightness in his chest had his throat locking. “Thanks for telling me that, Damien. You’ll tell me if you need anything, right?”
“Yes,” Damien said. “Talk to you later, brother.”
He hung up abruptly. Dante wasn’t surprised, used to his brother being abrupt with the phone. He stood in his study, looking out at the lawns and the lake, his mind reeling from every piece of the puzzle that was coming to light. His brother had a high-functioning brain, so while it was possible that it could be his imagination, a vivid, recurring dream like that could also be a memory.
Their mother had wanted him to hide. She had felt hunted. She had been murdered.
Dante rubbed a hand over his face, trying to discern the threads of mysteries around him that just kept getting more and more tangled.
Over the next few weeks, things stayed quiet, or as quiet as they could be for a man leading the largest mob family in the underworld. Dante had truly taken over the reins of all businesses, surgically removed all liabilities, and strategically placed in assets – both people and things – that maximized their profit.
Tristan and Morana had gone back to Shadow Port with a young Xander, with the excuse that she would try to locate his next of kin herself while Tristan talked to the boy. Dante had scoffed at that, aware that just the act of them taking the boy meant they were thinking of keeping him. Dante was happy for them, but the shadow looming over the boy’s appearance in their lives kept him skeptical, especially because it had been Xander who had coordinated their rescue with the Shadowman, even though he claimed not to have seen him.
Shadowman, or Morana’s airport asshole, was an unknown entity. He had ties to the Syndicate, and that alone made him someone Dante was extremely wary of. He didn’t know what game this guy was playing, or to what end, but he didn’t like it.
Alpha called Dante in the weeks too, telling him that while he hadn’t heard anything back from the feelers he’d put out, he was positive something would turn up. The call had been an update, but also a subtle hand reaching out, accepting the offer Dante had made to the man. It left him feeling good.
He had also begun looking into his mother’s death, trying to find any reports from all those years ago, her history, anything. So far, he came up empty.
On the ground, he had restructured his father’s resources, putting the army he’d been building over the years on the front and center of the fringe, men he had recruited and trained to make up the core of his organization. Vin, his most trusted man, he had assigned to Amara’s security. That was a good move both because Amara was comfortable in his presence and because Dante trusted Vin with her. Having seen them attached at the hip for years, he knew his presence in her life was good for her.
And she was good for Dante.
Sleeping with her in his arms every night, waking up to her flush against him, knowing there was no need to hide his love for her had been the biggest, most beautiful change in his life. Some mornings, he woke up early, just looking at the woman he had wanted for years, unable to believe he had her.
Dante scraped the statue he was working on, early morning light filtering in the new studio on this side of the house, Wuthering Heights playing on audio, as he wielded the scraper over the rough surface of the dried clay.
‘Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!’
Fuck, he should have listened to it years ago. The angst, the longing, the passion was reminiscent of his own tale of woe with Amara back then.
“Heathcliff was so swoon-worthy,” Amara’s voice from the door had him turning his neck to see her standing there, clad in one of his shirts.
Amara usually preferred wearing silk lingerie to bed, but one night when her gowns stopped going over her growing breasts, she had tossed them aside in a fit of pique, marched into his closet, grabbed his shirt, and put it on, claiming ‘these won’t outgrow me’.
He let his eye rove over her appreciatively; watching his large shirt hide her breasts and the small bump underneath, her hair braided to the side, falling over one shoulder, her beautiful eyes on his. He liked her in his shirts.
He put the scraper down as she entered the room, hitting pause on his phone to stop the book, and pulled her forward between his legs. Unbuttoning his shirt leisurely, keeping their gazes locked, he saw her pupils widen in the dark green orbs, her breathing picking up. She was horny, and she’d come to him.
They had visited the gynecologist twice over the last few weeks. On the most recent visit, Amara had confessed to being more aroused, more sensitive than usual. The doctor had simply told her it was natural, and sex was safe, and she should indulge herself as long as her hormones cooperated. It had been after that conversation that Amara had hopped on the bed for an ultrasound and Dante had seen their baby for the first time. It had been a blip, a tiny little bean on the black and white screen, and it had made something so powerful, so visceral rush through his system it had left him shaken. That was the moment the loss of their other child had hit him hard. Suddenly, that baby had become real too. He had seen that same joy and loss reflected on Amara’s face, seen her struggle with her tears and lose the battle, and they had left the room, changed.
Dante parted the sides of the shirt, breaking their gazes to look at the little bump on her belly, stretching the scars on the sides of her stomach over her skin, rounding from the edge of her panties, and it hit him again.
That was his warrior child, inside his warrior woman.
Cupping the bump with both hands, the size still small enough that it fit the span of his fingers, Dante smeared the wet clay over her skin, marking both her and their child.
He pressed his lips to her tummy, feeling her hands come to his hair.
“You’re going to be the most adored little princess in this whole world,” he murmured softly to his baby, still not knowing if it was a girl or a boy technically, but knowing in his heart it was a daughter. “Daddy already loves you so much.”
“Daddy Dante,” Amara murmured in the voice he loved so much. “I like the sound of that.”
“Be careful,” he looked up at her breasts, feeling their heaviness in his palms. “It’ll take me a second to make you dirty.”
Her nipples pebbled, the visual enough to send blood rushing to his cock, constrained in his jeans. Fuck, he loved how her body responded to his words, his voice, his everything. It made him feel like the luckiest bastard on the planet.
Without another word, he took some wet clay on the side in his hands, smearing a thin layer of it over her breasts. He knew the cold clay would stimulate her, but it would be the immediate drying that would prickle her skin, make her nerves tingle everywhere it was spread.
Her quick intake of breath told him the coolness had hit her. Dante held back, watching, mesmerized as the thin layer dried over her peaked nipples, heaving with her little gasps. He stood up, pushing his shirt over her shoulders, letting it pool around her bare feet, leaving her clad in simple black cotton panties. The light from the rising sun hit her naked body, illuminating her perfection, her scars, her flesh, showing him the rivulets of moisture in the rapidly drying clay.
He wet his hands again with the argil, spreading it over her shoulders, hearing her shuddering breaths as he walked around her.