The Emperor (Dark Verse 3)

Part 2 – Gust

“So, I wait for you like a lonely house

till you will see me again and live in me.

Till then my windows ache.”

Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

It had begun when she started avoiding him.

The girl had somehow always been there, on the sides. Every week during his training with Vin, every time Zia spoke of her daughter, every time she quickly looked away whenever he glanced at her. She had always been there, and Dante had never noticed like a man never noticed the light of the sun until he went blind. Not until she had stepped back. Suddenly, he became aware of her absence by the tree, aware of how she changed her course if she happened to see him coming, aware of how she went out of her way to get out of his presence.

In the beginning, he had chalked it down to her getting over her crush. But it had continued, for over a year before he had realized it could have been something else.

He had gone to visit Damien and told him about it, just wondering what the hell had been going on, and Damien – his brother who had never looked anyone in the eye except her – had said, “Maybe she doesn’t like you anymore.”

Looking at her sleeping, her young body a witness to nightmares she should never have witnessed but had somehow survived, Dante knew she was on his chessboard. He still didn’t know how and what her role was, but he had learned to trust the voice inside him after everything that had happened with Roni. Her death taught him never to rebel with an outsider again.

And that voice told her this sleeping girl was important. It had become an insistent whisper a year ago. Now, it was a roar.

She was important and he was not going to ignore that.

They had just brought her home from the hospital, and since she’d fallen asleep on the way, Dante had carried her to her room and placed her under her covers. He knew he had become more subdued on the outside after Roni’s death – the perfect prince to the imperfect kingdom – even as he rebelled on the inside. He’d just learned to hide it better.

Amara’s abduction had shaken him. He had known something had been wrong with her that evening of the party, and he’d let her go, even as his gut had wanted to keep insisting she tell him. He had let her go and she had been taken, brutalized, and he carried a part of that on himself. They had searched for three days when Tristan had given him a call, telling him he’d found her a few miles out of the city.

Dante would never forget the moment he had run inside that garage, the lead in his stomach as the sight of her had hit him, covered in bruises and burns and blood, wrapped in Tristan’s jacket, slumped on the table. The rage he had felt, still felt, had been a black hole inside his body, sucking everything into itself, expanding, until it was the only thing flowing through his veins. He had asked Tristan what had happened to her and the other boy had simply told him to take her to the hospital quickly. Dante had picked her up carefully, and she had opened those beautiful green eyes of hers for a second, glazed in pain but recognizing him, before collapsing on his chest with a trust that had unmanned him.

Yeah, she was fucking important to him.

Dante pushed her hair away from her face and leaving her to her slumber, he walked out of the bedroom into the cozy living room, to see his housekeeper standing by the window, looking out.

Dante joined her there, his eyes taking in the view of the falling dusk and the mansion.

“Who did this?” she asked after a long time, finally now that they were alone and away from ears.

Dante thought back to the interrogation he had subjected her abductor to while Tristan had violently taken care of his minions. It had taken hours for Dante to break him but he had, with that black rage and vengeance for that important girl with the forest eyes driving him. All he got was one name – Gilbert – before the man had died. Tristan and Dante had agreed to keep it to themselves. Until they knew the truth, they were telling everyone that it had been a rival family trying their luck. Though it didn’t sit well with him since she deserved the truth, Dante lied. “It was a rival gang. Amara had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Zia took a deep breath before asking him, “Should we leave this place? A part of me wants to take her away from here.”

Dante shook his head. “It’s too late. You’ve lived here too long. It’s safer for both of you to stay here on the compound.”

She accepted that, having already thought of it. “The boy at the cottage, the one who saved my baby,” she asked. “Do you think he would like it if I took care of his place?”

Dante felt a smile curl his lips, imagining Tristan seeing the maternal housekeeper on his doorstep. “Yeah, I think he’d like that.”

She nodded, turning to look at him with the odd, beautiful green eyes her daughter had inherited from her. “Thank you, Dante. You didn’t have to do any of this for us, but I am grateful.”

Dante put a hand on her shoulder, giving her a slight squeeze. “She’s going to need all of us.” 

Her mother shook her head. “She will appreciate all of us but all she needs is her heart. Amara has always been strong but so kind in a way I didn’t think people could be. I used to think strength had to be jaded until she taught me otherwise. She is strong like water is strong – it doesn’t appear that way because it’s adaptable, but it can seep into the smallest of cracks and break open the largest of rocks over time. She’ll be fine.”

Dante didn’t say anything, because he didn’t know her. But he wanted to know this girl with endless strength. He knew she was gentle, he knew she smiled big, he knew she had the most unique, beautiful eyes that the artist in him admired, and he knew she probably didn’t know her own strength. He had seen tough men break and seen their mind splinter, sometimes having been the one to break them. However, her three days at the hands of her captors, with the torture they put her through, hadn’t destroyed her. Beat her, yes, but she was still there, alive and visceral, vibrating with a force she probably didn’t realize she was emanating.   

“She’s the one who told me to give you cookies years ago, you know,” her mother smiled. “I told her about your mama’s death and that’s what she said – to give you sweets. I never thought of it before that. You were just a young boy too. And somehow, she saw it. Her heart has always amazed me.”

Dante remembered the first time Zia had come to him with cookies. He had been surprised and a little suspicious, but by the last bite, he’d felt better than he had in years.

And she’d done that for him, that slumbering, broken girl.

Yeah, she was important alright. Perhaps, she always had been and Dante just hadn’t seen it. He was just realizing that.

‘Fate is always weaving its threads, Dante. We just don’t see them until our eyes open.’

His mother’s words came back to him, a smile on her face as she said the words looking out at the sunset. He didn’t know if anything like fate existed beyond the books. But standing there, he could feel his eyes opening, thin threads stretching out from him and going beyond the room, hooking him to the sleeping girl inside.

Dante sat in front of his father in the study, keeping his face clear of all expression except a little smirk. While he let Lorenzo Maroni think he was on a leash, behaving like the good son that he was, that little smirk was his middle finger to his sire.

“Your brother is being moved. There was a fire at the home, so they’re relocating,” the bastard said, his eyes gauging Dante’s reaction. If he thought Dante was unaware of anything happening with his brother, the man was dumber than he’d given him credit for.

“Where?” Dante asked, leaning back in the chair.

As much as he hated his father, he had to admit the man had class. The older Dante grew, the more he realized he liked classy things, and this study was a prime example of that. Polished wooden furniture that matched the wooden panels behind his father’s chair, a bookshelf on the opposite corner filled with books he doubted his father had ever read; windows to his left with patterned draperies that somehow went with the stone and wood theme, and a huge desk that dominated this corner of the room. Cherry on top were the small chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

Classy motherfucker.

Dante hated that he got that from him, at least on the outside. Deep down, it was his mother who’d taught him class.

“Another location,” Bloodhound Maroni told him, holding that piece of information for leverage. Information, as his father had taught him, was the key. Dante smirked, already one step ahead of his game.

He could see that the smirk bothered the older man before he shook it off. “The girl, is she going to be a problem?”

Dante felt his shoulders tighten at the words. No way was she getting in his father’s crosshairs. She already had enough shit to last a lifetime.

“I don’t think so,” Dante informed him casually. He’d learned over the years that dealing with his father was pretty simple – appease him, stroke his ego, and let him stay complacent on his throne. Those made him overlook anything under his nose while outright rebellion honed him in.

“Who took her?”

“Still looking into it.”

His father nodded. “Pay off the mother and the girl to keep their mouths shut. We don’t want our enemies on the ground thinking they can pick anyone off the compound. Keep an eye on her.”

Yeah, they were keeping it low-key. Surprisingly, not many in the underworld even knew there had been an abduction, at least not to his knowledge. Or maybe, it wasn’t that surprising. Her last name wasn’t consequential enough. He frowned slightly, trying to remember if he even knew her last name.

Dante nodded, swiftly getting up from the chair and straightening his suit jacket.

“Oh, and a woman is coming into the fold,” his father informed him, taking his phone out to show him the photo of a beautiful, dark-haired woman. “Her father used to be a soldier before he folded, and she’s been making some waves lately. Her name is Nerea. Keep an eye on her too.”

Dante narrowed his eyes, his senses tingling. This was off, very off. There was no way his father was just letting a woman come into the fold because she was ‘making waves’. An equal opportunity believer his father was not. Women were whores to him. This absolutely did not go with his personality, even if she was sleeping with him. There was no way she could talk her way from his bed into the Outfit.

Nevertheless, he nodded, striding out of the room and into the corridor, taking his phone out. Dialing his only partner in crime, he put it to his ear and went out of the mansion.

“Where are you?” he asked as soon as the call was answered.

“Out,” came Tristan’s succinct response.

Dante rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on.”

There was silence for a second before he said, “Lincoln’s. 205.”

The hotel? What the hell was Tristan’s ass doing at a luxury hotel in the city?

“Be there in 20.”

Dante cut the call and headed to his black Range Rover that he’d bought the year he got his Outfit tattoo on his bicep. Hopping in, he drove out onto the long, winding driveway, down the hill, coming to the compound gates manned by four guards. Nodding to each one of them, he shot out of the property at a speed he shouldn’t have and headed to the city where the hotel was.

The view never stopped to amaze him – rolling green hills, endless skies, a winding river, and the huge city in the distance. Fuck, he loved this place.

Pulling into the hotel parking in record time, Dante stepped out and took the spacious elevator straight to the second floor. The hotel, plush and catering to luxurious tastes, was an odd location for his little buddy to be in. Going down the corridor to the room, Dante saw a woman give him an appreciative look, an invitation evident in her eyes, and he simply smiled at her, continuing on his way.

Tristan opened the door before he could knock, walking into a single bedroom, a laptop open on the bed.

“Hello to you too, buddy,” Dante closed the door behind him, his eyes on the laptop. There was a black and white feed on the screen of a restaurant.

“Is that the hotel restaurant?” he asked, taking a seat on the chair as Tristan sat on the bed. The younger boy hesitated for a second before nodding once.

Interesting.

Dante focused on the screen, seeing the camera recording a particular table where three men and a young girl sat.

Gabriel Vitalio was in the city.

Dante watched as the girl, wearing glasses, looked out the window. Morana Vitalio. Fuck.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” his eyes flew to Tristan, surprise filling his system as he saw the evidence of Tristan’s past thrown in his face. He knew the bloody history he had with the Vitalios but he had never, not once, thought that Tristan would be watching the girl. Given his intense personality, he probably should have.

Tristan didn’t say a word, just continued to stare as the girl, not older than thirteen or fourteen, pushed her glasses up her nose and stole a glance at her father, before looking out the window again, bored out of her mind. One of the men stole a glance at her and Dante’s skin crawled. Tristan’s hand fisted.

“Don’t let me kill him,” Tristan muttered and suddenly, Dante knew why he was there. He was there to contain him. Watching the creep, Dante didn’t mind that one fucking bit.

An hour later, the lunch wrapped up, and Vitalio party got up to leave. Tristan shut the laptop, threw it in his bag, his body vibrating with tension.

“Let’s go,” Dante said, leading the way out of the hotel room, down the corridor, down the elevator, and out to the side where the restaurant opened into the alley. Clocking the man who had stared a little too long at young Morana Vitalio, both he and Tristan followed him as he took out a cigarette to smoke.

Dante hung back, letting Tristan take the lead and take whatever frustration he had out on him. The younger boy went behind the man and put him in a headlock.

Dante watched them tussle, itching to take a smoke himself, when he felt eyes watching him. Turning to the side, he saw a man limping at the mouth of the alley, watching the entire scene.

Dante waited for a second, thinking he would pass, but he didn’t. He stayed, and he stared.

The limping dude was weird.

Dante let Tristan handle the creep, his own eyes on the bearded man at the other end of the alley, watching him watch them. Was he one of Gabriel’s guys?

Dante headed to him, and he started to limp away, relying heavily on his cane.

“Wait,” Dante called out, on the main street now, though it was mostly deserted at this time of the night. “Who are you? Why were you watching us?”

The man stopped, turning to look at him from behind his glasses. He put a hand inside his pocket, pulling out a piece of paper.

“I’m not a threat to you, Mr. Maroni. But one day, you’ll have questions,” the man told him quietly. “Call me then.”

Dante took the paper, suspicious.

“And take care of him. He’s important.”

With that, the man limped away, and Dante watched, weirded the fuck out.

But he kept the paper. And then he intervened before Tristan killed the fucker.

“Roses?” he carried Amara through the woods to the little spot beside the lake where she’d used to sit with her book. It was a beautiful day, and while she wasn’t allowed to put pressure on her feet by walking yet, Dante knew she liked getting out of the house.

His little bundle shook her head, a small smile on her lips.

Dante chuckled, setting her down gently against the tree, taking a seat beside her.

“What woman doesn’t like roses?” Dante huffed, mock-scandalized.

She shrugged, closing her eyes, soaking in the rays of the sun.

Dante looked at her, trying to wrap his head around everything that had happened within the last few weeks. Mostly, he was working and trying to process everything this girl was causing to happen inside him.

Where before he had been a man not appreciating the sun until he went blind, now he was a blind man blessed with vision seeing the sunlight in all its glory. Amara wasn’t sunlight of clear skies; she was the sun hiding behind dark clouds, muted but powerful enough to still light the world.

Beautiful Amara who had begun to heal but still couldn’t speak or walk. That would heal in time. It was her mind that was scaring him if he admitted.

He had made it a point to visit her every day at least once, just to check up on her. At first, she hadn’t really responded to anything, lost inside her own head, but slowly, she had begun to give him small smiles even when her eyes miles away. She fought it, wherever her head was, he could tell. Sometimes, she spaced out in the middle of a sentence he was saying, before shaking herself and coming back. Sometimes, she started to breathe rapidly before he had to call her name and bring her to the present.

The doctor had told him she would more than likely need therapy just to come to terms with her entire experience. Dante was beginning to admit she was right. But until she could talk, he had vowed to himself to be there for her. He felt responsible for her for some reason. Maybe it was the terror he had felt when Vin had called him. Maybe it was the panic he’d felt when he’d run into the garage to see her body so broken. Maybe it was the relief at the sign of life he’d felt when he picked her up in his arms and took her to the hospital. He didn’t know what or why it was, but he was coming to terms with the idea of not knowing. Sometimes, things didn’t really have a reason. Sometimes, they just were.

He had actually started reading up on trauma and torture survivors to understand her psyche better, so he could help her in any way she needed to heal. He was just grateful she hadn’t been violated in any other way. When the doctor had recounted her injuries, Dante remembered holding his breath and nearly collapsing from relief. She was a strong little thing.

“Do you even like flowers?” Dante asked, continuing their conversation, looking up at the sky, letting the sun warm him.

She shrugged again in his peripheral vision, holding up two slender fingers. Two flowers.

“Let me guess,” he looked at her in her purple dress and scarf and boots, trying to imagine what flowers she liked. “Orchids?”

She just gave a small smile. The frustrating girl was deliberately being thick. Dante had gotten used to reading her responses and what they meant in these conversations he had with her.

He rolled his eyes, looking down at her hands. The bandages had been removed a few days ago, the wounds airing out. In the bright sunlight, he could see the gruesome scars that went around her wrists. Black rage filled him as he saw it, the need to raise those fuckers from the grave just to kill them again acute inside him. 

He started to touch her hand but stopped himself. Carrying her was one thing, it was necessary to hold her then. But touching her skin like this in the open, where anyone could see was not something she needed.

Taking a deep breath in, he fisted his hand and pulled it back, turning his head up to the sky, and continued their chat as nothing had happened.

“Wildflowers?”

A small smile while her eyes were in a nightmare.

Days passed.

He went to see her every day, just to keep an eye on her, or that’s what he told himself.

He carried her out in the sun when it was out. He stayed in and watched movies with her when it wasn’t.

He took at least two hours every day to spend with her, even though she didn’t talk to him. But she communicated. She communicated with her eyes and her soft smiles and her hands.

Some days, she’d zone out and struggle. Some days, she’d give him her entire attention.

Dante went to see her every day, and after a while, he realized she wanted him to.

Weeks passed.

He saw her every day, and then he skipped.

For four days, he went out of town to see his brother.

For the next three, he and Tristan chased down the lead for her attack.

A week later he went to her.

She glared at him, threw him a pillow, and cried a little. He sat down beside her, and she hit him in the chest. It was the first time she touched him voluntarily before retreating into her blankets.

That was progress.

Months passed.

His hunt for Gilbert wasn’t panning out, but he kept at it. It was disastrous how many people were named Gilbert and without the last name, they were at a loss. The search for him also became a side project as he learned more of the business.

She started homeschooling. She started therapy. She started healing.

She hung out with Vin, occasionally with Tristan, and read romance books.

Every day, he knew a little more about her.

Every day, she saw a little more of him.

Every day, her scars solidified a little more on her skin.

But she didn’t talk to him.

Her mother said she had started to whisper little sentences. Vin told him she’d started to whisper little questions. Even fucking Tristan had said she’d started to whisper little words to him.

But not with Dante.

That fucking bugged him.

Years passed.

She became his person.

He would usually finish his day by going to her house and spending a few hours with her. She listened when he talked and communicated if she had questions. She made him watch movies and indulged him when he just wanted to be.

Sometimes he would see her flinch in the middle of nothing and he wondered if her torture had ever become another kind of violation. But the doctors had said nothing and she said nothing and Dante didn’t know if he should assume just because of the shit in his head.

His father never questioned him about her, but Dante kept him in the loop, saying he was keeping an eye on her. He knew he was being reckless. He knew he was being rebellious again. But he was a grown man and not a boy, and he could keep her safe.

Vin came outright and asked him what his intentions were with her, while Dante demanded he confirm he was nothing but her best friend. He confirmed and Dante was relieved.

The thing between them grew, feeling the sun and the water, feeling the nurture and the affection. They began to feel more like magnets than puzzle pieces, finding their way to each other, close but not close enough, as the tension between them built and built and built. 

She became his person.

She became his.