Romans & histoires Dante Booktok

I moved my hand in an attempt to stop blood from dripping onto the pages of the book, and as I was about to push the book away my eyes caught something on it. The title of the book was ADVENTURES OF THE GOLD KEEPER, IN THE MINE OF LOVE. but apart from the title page something else was written in bold letters. I drew in a deep gasp as i read the words, my eyes widening with consternation “IT IS THE FIRST WEEK OF THE SECOND MONTH SINCE I HAVE BEEN KEPT IN THIS PLACE, IN THE CASTLE LIBRARY OF THE NIGHTSHADE PACK. DANTE KEPT ME HOSTAGE IN THIS PLACE TO PUNISH ME FOR ANOTHER ONE OF HIS SILLY CRIMES. HE HAS BEEN STARVING ME, AND HURTING ME. I HAVE TRIED HARD TO ESCAPE BUT HE'S A VERY SENSITIVE PER

“It can be none other than these.” Caitlin’s eyes opened wide. “Do they really exist?” “Yes, of course,” he said. “They’re one of the more famous sites in Florence.” Caitlin’s heart leapt with excitement. Finally, something tangible. A real, solid clue. Blake took her hand. “Follow me.” *

Marcello's eyes narrowed into slits, and he stomped his cane on the floor loudly. “You are overstepping your boundaries, child.” “Is she?” Jose stepped forward, opening the portfolio. He held up the Saint Luca. “Because this book says otherwise.” In the periphery of my vision, I saw Dante move. He wasn't looking at the book, like everyone else was. He was looking at his watch. Suddenly, I recalled my vision from the elevator. “Five minutes,” I whispered. “Luciano,” I whispered, tugging lightly on his sleeve. He leaned in to me. “I think Dante is about to blow this place up,” I whispered in his ear.

First, the fire tasted the grass, then a bush, jumping to a twig, to old pine needles, then winding up the base of the dying pine, feasting on the dry fuel. The flames danced and played, gleefully jumping from grass to bush, feeding and consuming without end. The light grew brighter the more it fed on the landscape, gray smoke beginning to cloud the stars. ***

"Step away from the processing unit." Dante didn't wait for the fire. With one final, explosive wrench of his carbonized iron shoulders, his massive three-ton wolf-frame lunged across the aisle, his body taking the full brunt of the enforcers' magnetic slugs as the countdown for Chapter 157 began in the dark.

I should have pushed him away—the docks were crawling with Romanovs—but my hands found their way into his hair, pulling him closer. ​He groaned into my mouth, a raw, needy sound. He pulled away just an inch, his eyes dark with a madness I didn't understand. ​"Speak," I breathed, my lips swollen. "Say my name." ​Dante’s jaw worked. He looked like he was fighting a war inside his own head. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over my ear. ​"Bianca," he whispered. It was the most beautiful, dangerous sound I had ever heard. "If you ever... leave my sight again... I will burn the world to find your ashes."

Thirty years after Vienna, Luca sat in the garden writing the final pages of what would become his last book—not about trafficking this time, but about recovery itself, about what it meant to build an entire life on the other side of catastrophe. Dante, seventy-one now, sat across from him doing crossword puzzles with the same focused intensity he'd once brought to running a criminal empire. "Seven letters," Dante said. "Lasting beyond expectation." "Survival," Luca offered. "Doesn't fit. S-U-R-V-I-V-A-L is eight letters."

“You look like you saw an actual demon.” “Close enough,” I rasp. “He’s alive.” “Who is?” she asks, then her brain catches up. “No. No way. Don’t tell me—” “Dante,” I say. The syllables feel like glass in my mouth. Her fingers clamp around my forearms. “The Dante? Rooftop‑wine Dante? Slept‑on‑a‑mattress‑on‑the‑floor Dante?” “The one who left a note and ‘died in a fire’ Dante,” I say. I almost laugh; it comes out like a choke. “Apparently rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated.”

Dante was finished with his meal long before I was, and I cleared my throat, seeing his eye twitch. “You,” I gestured to two of my men. “Send the body for an acid bath. Not one trace should be left.” I let my words trail off, the ‘or else’ implied unspokenly. “Yes Don,” the two men chorused and got to work. Instantly the diner was alive again, with swift movements. One of Paolo’s people cleared the plate from the table while I returned my gaze to Dante’s. The dim lighting painted his skin in warm hues, with rays of the moonlight streaming in through the window. He looked delectable.

I move my lips along his jaw toward his hair, and when I reach his ear I suck the lobe between my teeth, biting down on the tender skin. This time, the sound he makes isn't a growl - it's something infinitely more feral. His fingers dig into my back, and though I gasp at the sharp pain, I don't pull away. No, gentleness was never our way. Dante once said it was because we felt too deeply to hold back, that we didn't know how else to deal with the overflow of energy between us. And he's right. I've never been good at handling my emotions. And Dante... Dante might seem to be controlled, might seem to be the thoughtful, reserved one next to his brothers, but beneath the surface there's a storm