Dante Devil May Cry Novels & Stories

Dante. Leaning casually against the window, half-naked, holding a glass of amber whiskey like he was in a cologne commercial. His tattoo curled down the side of his torso like it had been drawn by sin itself, highlighting every sculpted inch of his abs. And that smirk—God, that smirk. Equal parts arrogant and devastating. What on earth was wrong with you, Scarlet? Why do you want to pounce on him? “Why am I here?” I asked, trying to sound firm, though my eyes may have lingered a little too long on his chest.

During the cold, the girl let out a loud cry, and I held her tightly against my chest. “Take them,” I barked. “Now.” We vanished into the night. Old blood and new ambition emanated from the underground temple. Hundreds of the Death Pack, which were full of cursed wolves with unnaturally bright eyes and covered in darkness, had Dante waiting at the altar. He resembled a shadowy king, sweating on his hair and having veins that were black from the dark beer he had consumed at this time. He expressed his gleeful approval, saying "You did it." “Don't act surprised.”

This is forever. “Here lies Lucian D’Argento—devil to the world, but a man who loved enough to conquer death.” [TOPE]

Dante’s lips curved, but nothing about it was a smile. “Then you came here to die,” he growled, his voice calm as though killing me would be nothing more than brushing dirt from his jacket. I swore I could feel my heart pounding loudly against my ribs. His gun was steady, black, and merciless, aimed right between my eyes. For a moment, my knees threatened to give up beneath me. Dante Veynar wasn’t like the other men I’d manipulated before. He wasn’t moved by beauty, lust, or sweet words like Adrain had been. His eyes were dead colder than a winter stone itself.

Dante was at the center of it. He moved like a storm, a gun barking in his right hand, dagger flashing in his left. A man lunged from the shadows; Dante didn’t even pause. One shot to the chest, the body collapsing at his feet. Another attacker swung wide with an iron pipe. Dante ducked low, drove his blade up into the man’s gut, and wrenched it free in a spray of crimson. Emilia pressed herself tighter against the fountain, her fingers digging into the cold stone. She couldn’t look away, no matter how much her stomach churned. This was Dante unmasked—the Devil they all whispered about. No rules. No mercy. Just death, precise and inevitable.

Marcini’s tan bled to ash, Giovanni’s glass slipped and shattered, Dante’s hand went for the gun under his jacket—then froze when Matteo stepped out from behind me, his hands already on his gun. I smiled the smile that made grown men piss themselves. Marcini recovered first. “Enzo… Cristo santo…” I closed the distance, pulled him into a hug that looked brotherly and felt like a threat at the same time. Over his shoulder I whispered, “Surprised to see me, brother? Sono tornado, Marcini. Non si uccide il Diavolo. Il Diavolo non resta morto.” Translation: I’m back, Marcini. You can’t kill the devil. The devil doesn’t stay dead.

He adjusted his suit jacket, though his eyes were still burning with the fire of L'Oscuro. He looked down at Mateo, who was still on his knees. "You thought you were inviting a tech CEO to a birthday party." Dante whispered, his voice dangerously calm. "You forgot who I was before I built the company, Santiago." Mateo spat. “You son of…” "You invited the Devil into your house." Dante hissed. "And now you are upset that he brought hell with him." Then he casually shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around the room, his grey eyes sweeping over the terrified elite of New York.

My heart began beating rapidly, causing a ringing in my ears. “ Drums down heart. We need the money.” When the doors slid open, I almost bolted. But I didn't. Running won't feed me or bring back my mother's jewelry. Dante stood at the windows like he owned the world which, let’s be honest, he probably did. I mean, he is Dante Moretti after all. He was wearing a black shirt, its sleeves rolled up, veins lined his forearms as well as a snake tattoo. He has broad shoulders. And an ass that could make a nun reconsider her vows. When he turned, his gaze snapped me out of lustful thoughts.

she spat, even as her nipples hardened against the thin fabric of her dress. That was the final straw. Dante ripped the straps of her dress down in one violent motion, exposing her breasts. Before she could protest, he bent down and sucked a hard nipple into his mouth, biting down just enough to make her cry out. His hand shoved between her thighs, fingers pushing her soaked panties aside and plunging two thick digits deep into her tight heat. “Still so fucking wet,” he snarled, pumping his fingers roughly. “Trapped with the Devil’s Son for one day and your virgin pussy is already weeping for me.”

He took another step forward, his heavy, iron boots cracking the marble with every stride. "The scrapper doesn't leave the site until the iron is cleared, old woman," Dante rumbled, his grey eye burning with a dark, smoky fire that outshone her stolen violet light. "And this whole room is scrap." Dante didn't use a blade. He wrapped his massive, iron-crusted arms around the base of the five-story server column, his muscles bulging until the scars on his back split open, pouring red-gold "Grit-Fire" directly into the machine's cooling intake.