Chapter Twenty-Four - The Choice

The phone is still on the table.

I don’t look at it again.

I don’t need to.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

My name.

My father’s signature written between the lines like a death sentence.

The room hums with tension, but inside me something goes very still.

I don’t break.

I don’t cry.

I straighten.

Slowly, I lift my eyes to Dante.

He’s watching me like he expects me to fold—or explode. Like he’s bracing himself to decide what to do about me.

I don’t give him that.

“If my father wants me dead,” I say calmly, “then I want his empire.”

The words land heavy.

Marco inhales sharply behind me. Someone curses under their breath.

Dante doesn’t react right away.

Good.

I step closer to the table, palms braced against the wood.

“He doesn’t issue bounties lightly,” I continue. “This isn’t punishment. It’s containment. He thinks I’ve compromised his control.”

I look up at Dante, meeting his gaze head-on.

“He’s wrong.”

Silence.

Then Dante says quietly, “You’re asking for war.”

“No,” I correct. “I’m offering you one.”

That gets his attention.

I start listing without hesitation — because this isn’t emotion, this is training.

“I know his offshore accounts. The shell companies that fund black ops. I know which captains are loyal out of fear and which are loyal out of blood.”

I pause.

“And I know which ones would turn if the right man gave them permission.”

Dante’s eyes darken.

“You,” I say. “You’re the right man.”

He steps closer, voice low. “And what do you want in return?”

I don’t hesitate.

“Protection. Not a cage.”

“Resources.”

“And a promise.”

He arches a brow. “Which is?”

“That you won’t try to save me from what I’m about to do.”

The air between us crackles.

Dante studies me like he’s recalibrating everything he thought he knew.

Then he nods once.

“You help me dismantle Vincenzo Moretti’s network,” he says.

“You give me everything you have.”

“And?” I push.

“You stay,” he finishes. “With me. Under my protection. Under my authority.”

I laugh softly. “You already tried that.”

“This time,” he says, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat of him, “it’s not captivity. It’s alliance.”

I search his face for deception.

I don’t find it.

“What happens when this is over?” I ask.

His jaw tightens. “Then we see what survives.”

I consider that.

Then I extend my cuffed wrists toward him.

“Deal.”

He doesn’t uncuff me right away.

Instead, he grips my wrists firmly, grounding, deliberate.

“Once you cross this line,” he says quietly, “there’s no going back. Your father will burn everything to take you out.”

I meet his stare without flinching.

“Let him.”

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then Dante unlocks the cuffs.

The sound is loud. Final.

I rub my wrists once, feeling strange without the weight of restraint.

Dante turns to the room.

“Clear it.”

Marco hesitates. “Boss—”

“Now.”

The room empties.

When the door shuts, Dante faces me again.

“You just chose me over your blood,” he says.

I shake my head. “No. I chose myself.”

Something fierce and approving flickers in his eyes.

Approval sharpens into something far more dangerous.

He moves fast—one step, then another—until my back hits the wall with a solid thud. Not painful. Just enough to remind me of the force he holds and the fact that he’s choosing not to use it.

His hands come up, bracketing my head against the wall, palms flat on either side of me. I can feel the heat of him, smell gunpowder and coffee and something darker underneath.

“There’s no going back now,” he says quietly.

His voice isn’t angry.

It’s final.

“You’ve crossed a line,” he continues, leaning in just enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his gaze. “You didn’t just choose war. You didn’t just choose me.”

His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking.

“You made a deal with the devil.”

The words should scare me.

They don’t.

I smile.

Slow. Deliberate. Honest.

“Good,” I say softly. “I’ve never trusted angels.”

For a split second, something feral flashes across his face—satisfaction, hunger, recognition. Like he’s finally looking at someone who speaks his language.

He lowers his head just enough that his forehead almost touches mine.

“Then understand this,” he murmurs. “I don’t make half-deals. I don’t let people walk away. And I don’t protect something unless it belongs to me.”

I don’t flinch.

“I’m not something,” I say calmly. “I’m someone who chose you.”

That earns me a low, dangerous chuckle.

“Careful,” he warns. “You’re going to make this personal.”

I meet his gaze, steady and unafraid.

“It already is.”

For a long moment, neither of us moves.

The room hums with it—violence, loyalty, lust, and something that feels a lot like inevitability.

Then Dante steps back.

Not because he has to.

Because he chooses to.

“Get some rest,” he says. “Tomorrow, we start burning your father’s world down.”