48 HOURS TILL DOOM

Dante's POV

The moment I put my mouth on him, I knew he was mine.

I should not have crossed that line. I should not have laid my hands, my lips, my everything on Marco Powell — the golden son of the man who betrayed me.

He was supposed to be leverage. Nothing more.

A pawn I would have used to bring his father to his knees.

But that kiss…

That damned kiss.

It was supposed to humiliate him, remind him his life was mine to do with as I pleased. Instead, it seared through me like bourbon, like gunpowder.

I could not get out of my head the taste of him — anger and defiance and something sinfully sweet underneath.

I threw back another shot of bourbon, the bitter-sweet taste burning its way down my throat.

I would not let the spoiled son of an upstart politician get my head twisted like this.

The office was quiet except for the gentle snap of the fire behind me, the only light filtering across the dark wood of my desk. Leonardo stood beside me, his face cut from stone as he let me enjoy the silence.

Finally, he coughed.

I snapped my head toward him, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

"Whose blood are we spilling now, boss?" His tone was wary, but direct. "You know we're running out of time to make those deliveries to the Volkovs. And Volkov doesn't like to wait."

He wasn't wrong.

The Russians had been breathing down my neck for weeks now, demanding the arms shipment Powell had helped me promise them. When the President double-crossed me, it hadn't been just a personal betrayal — it had left me in debt to one of the most dangerous men in Eastern Europe.

And I wasn't a man who liked owing anyone anything.

I leaned back in my chair, reaching for my phone on the desk. The screen lit up, displaying the photo I’d taken earlier: two simple rings resting on a bloodstained white towel. The same towel we’d used to wrap Marco’s shoulder after I’d put a knife through it.

I stared at the image for a while, then hit send — sending it to the official number I knew was never out of President Powell's hands.

We did not wait for long.

The phone rang within three minutes.

Leonardo looked up, wordless, as I answered the call.

"President Powell."

"Russo," he growled, his voice tight and under control. But underneath, I could hear it — the crack, the fear.

I almost smiled.

"I assume you got my gift yesterday," I said offhandedly. "The knife that spilled your son's blood. Hope you enjoyed it. I even had it cleaned for you."

"Enough of this fooling!" he snapped. "What in the devil are you driving at? Those shipments you want — they were interdicted, rerouted into official transport channels. My name would have been in the red if I'd interfered. You know that!"

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk.

He was lying.

My sources inside had already confirmed that the shipments were smuggled under a fictitious name — Poller — and rerouted to a private farmhouse two states away. Powell thought he could play dumb with me.

I emitted a low, sinister laugh.

"Liar."

A moment of silence.

Alright then," I said softly, my voice turning to steel. "Maybe next I'll send you your son's finger. Possibly with the ring already on it, to save time."

There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the phone.

"Hear me out, Russo," he said, his voice cracking for the first time. "I'm begging you. Leave the boy alone. Whatever it is you think I've done — those shipments aren't mine to meddle with anymore. Please. Some mercy."

I stopped cold.

Mercy?

The President of the United States begging me for mercy?

For his son's life?

A warm something bubbled in my chest — part satisfaction, part shock. I hadn't pegged Powell as the sort to bow his head for anything or anyone.

But it seemed Marco was his Achilles' heel.

"Mercy?" I said again, smiling slowly. "I don't do mercy, Powell. Not for you. Not after the five men you had murdered like dogs."

"They were a danger to national security—"

"They were my men!" I growled, my voice a snarl now, sharp enough that Leonardo glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.

I breathed, steadying myself.

"You have forty-eight hours," I said coldly. "Forty-eight hours to pay what you owe me. After that, forget you have a son."

I hung up without waiting for a response, letting the phone fall onto the desk.

The silence that followed was heavy, almost crushing.

Leonardo broke the silence first.

"That boy downstairs." he began, walking on eggshells once more. "What will you do with him if the President doesn't stand down?"

I refilled my bourbon, letting the whiskey burn the last bits of Powell's pleading from my ears.

"What I want," I answered simply.

But as I tipped the glass back, Marco's face was in my mind — white, furious, those defiant eyes blazing into me even as he'd tried to force out the words yes, I do.

My jaw clenched.

This is my fucking revenge. forcing Marco to marry me was another way of annihilating Powell, of watching him squirm while his golden son was drawn into my world.

The moment I kissed him,I fed a hunger I knew I shouldn't have.

Now it was more than revenge.

Now, it was about me.

Marco Powell might just be my obsession.

And if his father didn't give me what I wanted within forty-eight hours…

I was going to make sure Marco never forgot who owned him.