Dante Dmc 6 Novels & Stories

Ricci turns to Dante then, “Now, I’m going to need you to tell me about your trade, Dante. You have warehouses and a drop point in Korea. Tell me where it is.” “No—’ “I said shut up!” Ricci bellows, crazed eyes turning towards me. “Or I’ll make you shut up.” “B-Busa-” Dante’s face contorts into one of pain. Watching him physically struggle against the drugs messing with his mind is a different kind of torture. I just want this to be over. But not yet. I haven’t found my opening yet. I’m sorry, Dante. I need to wait. “Bu…san.” Dante manages to grit out despite his struggles to keep it in.

The door at the top of the stairs creaks open, and the first one descends… Dante is the oldest. His broad frame fills the doorway, his black T-shirt clinging to the ridges of his abs, the sleeves stretched tight around biceps that look like they could snap steel. His dark hair is slicked back, his jaw filled with stubble, and his lips curl into a slow, predatory smile as his gaze rakes over me. He doesn’t speak, not yet. He just looks, his eyes lingering on the way my chest heaves, the way my thighs tremble, the way my fingers twitch against the ropes as if I could somehow escape.

Dante asked Richie. Richie stepped forward and scanned each car body in front of him. He looked serious, but even more surprising was when Richie pulled out a black lighter with a Cartier diamond engraved with his full name. The man did not hesitate to open the lid of the lighter. A second later, a blue flame appeared. "Young man, what are you doing?" asked Dante nervously. "Step aside, Dante, before you get burned too!" Dante glared at the young master. Not wanting anything dangerous to happen, Dante stepped back. Richie struck a match as soon as he opened the fuel container.

Dante walked over and scooped her up into his arms, completely ignoring the fact that her sticky syrup hands were immediately grabbing his black shirt. "The most important mission yet.." Dante said, tapping her on the nose. "Operation Gelato." An hour later, we were flying down the winding, sun-baked roads of the Tuscan hills. Dante had brought a vintage, cherry-red Alfa Romeo convertible car. The top was down and the warm wind was whipping through my hair. I had my sunglasses on, leaning my head back against the leather seat, completely intoxicated by the smell of pine trees and the expensive cologne radiating from the man in the driver’s seat.

he said. "What! You can't do that" "You are to stay here and keep things in order while I go after that troublemaker" Dante told Geremia. Geremia watched helplessly as Dante got on his power bike and zoomed off. He prayed that nothing would go wrong. Dante enquired from his men the last place where Camilla was seen and headed there. As he drove his car, he cursed Camilla inwardly. What the hell was she up to now? Ever since he bought that little pest, she kept inviting trouble to his life. He had literally used his own money to invite trouble into his life.

Tito Rommel muttered. “He’s Charles Flemish, 16 years old. He’s kind and nice, he enjoys playing basketball and football, he loves listening to music, he enjoys reading books... Mom, I am 100% sure about him, he loves me and I love him too, he said to me I am the girl he wants to marry when we grow up.” “Still, you are not yet 18! You still broke the rule, Sara!” I can feel the anger in Tito Rommel’s voice. I bit my lower lip while just looking at them.

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.

Will Dante help me? ******************************************

There was no way we’d reach the car before… Power exploded across the clearing, but it wasn’t witch magic. It was silver-blue and devastating, and it slammed into the ground between us and our pursuers with enough force to create a crater. I stumbled, nearly falling, and turned to see Dante standing in the maintenance doorway. He was battered, his shirt torn, blood trickling from a cut above his eye, but his power blazed around him like an aura of pure dominance. “I said,” he snarled at the witches, “you don’t touch what’s mine.”

Dante. Looming behind us.