Dante 101 Dalmatian Street Novels & Stories

Dante sneered, leaning back in his tall chair while his left hand tapped the glass jar containing the wolf-bane powder. "You have no guards left inside this building, Father, and every single enforcer you hired put their weapons down the second I read Mother's blood phrases in the foyer," Fantine called out from behind my shoulder, her voice clear and strong through the quiet room. "Your mother was a fool who thought she could control men with words on paper, Fantine, and you are an even bigger fool for linking your royal bloodline to a stray wolf from the valley," Dante spat back, his dark eyes narrowing as he glared at the two of us standing together.

Mocking. **Come alone to Pier 17 at dawn, or she dies.** Beneath it, a phone number. And at the bottom, almost like an afterthought: **P.S. We know about Elena. She can't save you. No one can.** Dante crumpled the note in his fist. His vision went red at the edges. They'd taken her. Right from under his nose. While he was ten feet away, they'd walked into this diner and taken the one person he...

Together, we stepped onto the desolate streets, our footsteps swallowed by the decaying asphalt beneath us. Hell's Gaze, a name that sent shivers down the spines of average citizens, was an embodiment of destitution and despair. The houses stood like skeletal remains, their crumbling facades a reflection of the souls that inhabited them. Stray dogs scavenged for morsels among the debris that littered the streets, their eyes gleaming with a hunger that mirrored the desperation of the community.

Dante introduced the butler. "You are welcome, Madam." The butler tried to smile but it looked hideous in the eyes of Madonna. "You can call me Madonna, nice to meet you." "How can you go off and get married without notifying anyone." An old woman came out complaining, drawing all attention to herself. "Nana!" Dante's eyes softened as he looked at the old woman. Madonna noticed it and knew the woman means a lot to Dante. Nana is a chubby old woman whose hair has turned white and the mole on her left cheek made her look easy on the eyes.

he said with that infuriating smirk, looking entirely too pleased with himself. The door handle rattled again, harder this time. "Why won't it open? Is it stuck or something?" Arielle's confused voice came through clearly now. I blinked, glancing at the door, then back toward Dante. What had he done to jam it? But before I could even turn around to ask— Dante moved to the back of the room, slipping behind one of the large clothing racks with practiced silence. Of course he was good at this, disappearing, moving unseen. He was a mafia king, after all.

She turned on her heels and walked down the hallway with her small box, ending a chapter she had barely begun. --- Dante sped through the streets, running red lights without care. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The words he had heard the night before kept repeating in his head like a curse. *“It’s me, Dante. Your brother Roberto.”* “No,” he muttered violently, shaking his head. “He couldn’t be back. He was supposed to be dead. He *needs* to be dead.” His foot pressed harder on the accelerator. “He won’t take Elena from me. She’s mine!”

Dante Dante Valentino had seen fear in a thousand different faces, but he'd never seen anyone master it quite like Isabella Romano. She stood in the doorway of her pathetic little restaurant, blocking his entrance like she had any right to refuse him. Her white blouse was stained with red sauce—marinara, he noted absently—and her dark hair was falling out of its bun in messy strands. She looked exhausted. Worn down. Exactly like someone who'd been working herself to death trying to pay off a debt she could never escape.

My mind was somewhere else; it was on a certain man Dante

👀* The villa feels tighter with every notification. I’m in the small sitting room off the hallway, curled in an armchair with my notebook, trying to pretend I care more about a bridge than the digital wildfire outside. I don’t hear him come in. I feel him. The air changes, electric and heavy. The hairs on my arms rise before I even look up. Dante stands in the doorway, still in his white shirt from earlier, sleeves rolled to his forearms. No tie. No jacket. Just a loosened collar and eyes like a storm.

“Is this part of your retraining too?” Dante smirked, unfazed. “No. This is just me being honest. Someone has to be.” He let the silence stretch before adding casually, “You’re not the only one feeding someone information, you know.” That stopped me cold. “What did you just say?” But Dante was already standing, brushing imaginary lint from his jacket. “I’m just saying… if you think you’re the smartest rat in this maze, you might want to look around.” And then he walked away, whistling.