The Emperor (Dark Verse 3)

She had disappeared. 

He was doing this for her, for them, and she had fucking vanished. God, he couldn’t wait to get back so he could look for her himself.

Dante tugged at the cap on his head, missing the feeling of the watch on his hand and the suit on his body. The t-shirt, while soft, wasn’t really him in public. But that was the point.

Dante Maroni was dead, and he was a ghost. For years, he had been building towards this point, working from the inside to this end. Daddy dearest’s closet was finally open, and the monsters inside sunk their claws into him.

He didn’t want to fake his death, but it had all come to a head with a phone call from the man across from him – the same weirdo who’d been watching Tristan and him beat up a creep years ago. With a heavy beard and hazel eyes that were a hundred percent Morana, the man had given him evidence of his father’s true evil.

For years, Dante had known there had been something more to the business, but he’d never been able to nail it. Not until his search for Amara’s abductors had led him to a name.

The Syndicate.

He had remembered the name. And when Morana came up with the same name again searching for any trace of the missing children twenty years ago, it put him on high alert.

But the Syndicate was a ghost – no one knew anything about it, hadn’t heard about it, didn’t even know it existed. So to catch a ghost, he crossed over to the other side and became one himself.

The man passed him the envelope. He didn’t know the man’s name, never had, but soon after getting his brother out and Amara’s exile, Dante had contacted him. They’d been working together ever since, taking over his father’s empire piece by piece, from the fringes, readying the entire system for his takeover on his terms – although Dante was amazed he hadn’t realized this guy had set Tristan up by stealing the codes until later. But the man had asked Dante not to let them know, and while Dante wouldn’t have agreed usually, he was Morana’s father. So, Dante respected that.

“This is the address?” Dante asked, sinking deeper into the shadows of the hole-in-the-wall bar in Tenebrae, where the worst of humanity hung around, drinking cheap booze and finding cheaper pussy. Nobody in the world would recognize him here, not with his scruff and cap and loose clothes.

“Yes,” the man replied, rubbing his knee that Dante knew had been injured courtesy of his father. The Reaper was a strong man to survive what he did and to live as he did, just to protect his child who didn’t even know of his existence. And Dante had grown fond of Morana, so he knew this would hit her hard. But still, he respected strength, and the strongest person he knew was in the winds.

Where the fuck was she?

“That’s your in,” the man continued, speaking in low tones despite the noise in the place. “I have information that two members of the Syndicate will be there. They all have a little S tattooed between their thumb and forefinger. Find them. Befriend them or interrogate them, it’s your call.”

He nodded.

He was going to infiltrate the Syndicate, the ghost organization that didn’t exist. He didn’t know who all were involved in it, or exactly what they did, but fuck if he let this shit run the show in his city while he took over. His father, from what Dante had inferred, either partnered with the organization in some way or did their bidding. He wasn’t involved, because he didn’t have a tattoo on his hand, and Dante had checked.

“Take a backup. A few men,” the Reaper told him, his hazel eyes serious on Dante, older, more experienced. Dante knew the man would kill his father one day, and honestly, if anyone deserved to kill the asshole, it was this man.

“I’ll take Tristan,” Dante nodded again, throwing some cash on the table out of habit, and got up, keeping his head low, walking out of the bar. It was an art, to blend with the crowd and the shadows especially with his height and build.

Walking to the pavement, Dante began to walk down the dark street, sending Tristan a text with the address and time through the disposable burner phone, knowing he would get there.

While teen Tristan had been a raging storm, adult Tristan had become the calm before it. He alone was enough of a backup, and Dante trusted the bastard to watch him. Tristan still barely tolerated him, but he was fond of Amara and knowing Amara loved his sorry ass was a point in his favor. Plus thankfully, Morana being fond of Dante had softened him, to the point that now Dante could make a quip and Tristan would just sigh and let it go. Sigh. The man never sighed. But Dante knew what love – and good sex – with the woman of one’s heart did for a man. He had known it for years, had survived for years because of it, had found strength in the darkest pits of hell because of it, because of her.

Amara.

A decade ago, Dante had loved the girl she’d been. Now, he was awed by the woman she had become.

He had seen her, every time he saw her, growing into her skin, glowing with her scars, becoming a woman who would one day rule by his side.

Dante had never known softness and strength could coexist together in such balance before her. Despite being through everything she’d been through, walking through hell and fighting the demons in her mind, she still had a love for life that unmanned him. The most generous of hearts, the most steely of spines, Amara was a woman of beauty, a warrior of blood, a queen of scars.

And he was one fucking lucky bastard that she felt an ounce of affection for him, enough to wait on his promises even as it hurt her.

Most people weren’t capable of that kind of love – to give so much without losing themselves. Yet, she did. With him, with her cat, with Tristan, and now with Morana, Amara gave.

He had dropped that cat Lulu – what the fuck kind of name was Lulu? – outside her apartment immediately after her exile, back when he’d thought he could let her go and stay away from her. He hadn’t wanted her to be completely alone and somehow, knowing she had a companion he gave her, made him feel closer to her. Although, she still didn’t know Lulu had been Dante’s gift to her. She said Lulu was her miracle at a time she’d needed it the most, and Dante let her believe that. One of them needed to keep believing in miracles.

Where are you, baby?

Fuck, he missed her. And he had no shame admitting how completely, utterly in love with her he was. If there was one thing his mother had taught him right at the beginning of his life, it was emotions and that feelings were powerful. And a man who denied them out of a misbegotten sense of societal norm was a fool. There was nothing more forceful than emotion, and Dante was witness to that. Hate for his father, revenge for his mother, justice for his brother and Roni, and love for Amara – all pure, unadulterated emotions in his veins, driving him to plan, plot, and plunder, piece by piece.

And after years, it was slowly coming to a head.

The address was a farmhouse eighty miles out of the city, deep in the country, registered under the name of one Alessandro Villanova. Dante had no idea who this guy was but as he and Tristan entered the property, his eyes took in the simple exterior. Too simple. It was a house one would pass on the highway without once taking a second look at. Dante knew how deceptive exteriors could be, and these simple grey walls were meant to deceive.

“Tell me you have a bad feeling about this,” Dante muttered to a silent Tristan, his stomach turning. Tristan’s jaw clenched. Answer enough. He believed his feelings now. If his gut said something was off, then something was off.

They sneaked around the shadows, weapons in hand, ready to attack or defend as needed.

Sounds coming from a room had them exchanging a look before they cautiously proceeded to it. Having worked together seamlessly for years, they were well in sync. Nodding on the count of three, Dante slowly extended his hand and pushed the door open, his heart calm but gut churning.

He and Tristan watched the four adults in the room, and suddenly, Dante knew exactly what the Syndicate was about.

Children.

Tristan’s fist slammed on the guy’s already swelling face. Dante stood to the side, letting him take his rage out. Dante knew seeing the girl, the red-headed little girl, in that place, in that position, had unlocked a slew of demons in Tristan’s head.

They had stumbled upon the scene and for the first time, Dante saw Tristan’s face break, knowing his own reflected the same. While they were murderers and monsters, there were some lines they could never, ever even imagine crossing. What they witnessed had been true monstrosity.

Somehow, they’d grabbed the first asshole who had left the room, the asshole with the S tattooed on his hand, and brought him to one of their warehouses to interrogate.

If Tristan’s hits were anything to go by, he wouldn’t be able to talk, much less give any coherent information. Time to step in.

Throwing his cigarette away, Dante put a hand on the younger man’s heaving shoulder.

“I’ll take it from here,” he looked at the man he had come to consider a brother-in-arms, a man who was on the verge of losing his shit. Dante knew that every day that went without any news on Luna was another weight on his shoulder.

“Go to Morana,” he told Tristan quietly, not worried about their captive listening. He wouldn’t be making it out alive anyway. “Be with her. I’ll handle this motherfucker.”

Tristan hesitated before giving him a tight nod and walking out of the warehouse.

Dante grabbed a chair and turned it, taking a seat in front of the bastard, wishing he could take him to the interrogation basement at the compound. He had better infrastructure there. Well, he’d improvise.

Taking out another cigarette, because this was a fucking stressful situation and he needed to keep as calm as possible, Dante lit it up slowly, keeping his eyes on the man. Dark-haired, medium built, averagely dressed, he could pass on the street for just another guy.

He stayed silent, simply smoking and watching him. That was his primary tactic. People always underestimated how powerful mastering silence could be, especially because human beings always tried to fill it. It was a psychological torture tactic – one of Dante’s personal favorites and one that the artist in him appreciated – because it let their imaginations run wild. Would he kill them? How would he do that? With a bullet, a knife, or a wire? Would he torture them? Break their bones? Pull their nails? Or something worse?  

It was his favorite because before he even asked them a question, they scared themselves on their own enough to show him a crack. And then, Dante put a nail on the crack and hammered, and hammered, until it split. 

He took in a deep drag, letting his emotions simmer under his skin, watching the man’s face swell.

“What do you want?”

Crack.

Dante simply sat there, watching him steadily. He knew that freaked them out – this huge dude just smoking calmly, no response, no crazy look, nothing.

“Look, I don’t even know who you are.”

Lie. The man had recognized him, paling like he’d seen a ghost.

Dante blew out a cloud of smoke. Feeling a little evil, he started making smoke rings in the air, seeing them float towards the man.

The guy pissed in his pants. Dante didn’t react, still sitting five feet away from him, even as the stench filled the room.

“I’ll tell you what you want to know,” he blubbered. “I have a wife, kids. I love them. Please let me go.”

Yeah, and a pig was flying overhead. The fucker couldn’t be serious.

Dante crossed one ankle over his knee, placing his hand with the cigarette down over the other.

“Syndicate,” he uttered one word.

The guy swallowed. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout.”

Dante didn’t respond, just kept watching him silently. One minute passed. Two. More. After a few minutes, the guy squirmed.

“I just got drafted into the organization last month,” the man admitted. “Today was my… um, induction party.”

Fucking sleazy slimeball. 

Dante inhaled another drag.

“That’s all I know.”

Not likely.

“What’s your name?” Dante asked.

“Um, Martin.”

“Martin, how did you get to know about them?” Dante asked. The guy swallowed but stayed silent. Dante gave him a deliberate smirk, the one that really got to people after his silence, fueling their imaginations some more.

“I… you only get in through… reference,” he confessed after a few seconds.

Dante nodded. “Very good, Martin. And who was yours?”

“A… a guy I met in a … chatroom online.”

“And what did this guy tell you about the Syndicate?”

The guy shivered. “Just that… they were an organization that catered to… what I was looking for.”

“Kids, you mean,” Dante grit out, feeling the rage pulse in his blood.

The guy looked away, apparently ashamed. Yeah, the fucker had had a hard-on a few hours ago, so Dante didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for him.

“And this guy,” Dante redirected the interrogation back on track. “He was recruiting? How does it work?”

“If I tell you, will you let me go?” he straightened in his chair, trying to be brave.

“Depends on what you tell me, Martin,” Dante drawled out, leaning back in his chair. “I get in a good mood, you get out of here.” In a body bag, Dante didn’t add.

The man nodded, believing him. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Good.

“The guy,” Martin began, looking to his feet. “I just know him by his username. MrX. He said he was a part of a group that could arrange… what I wanted for me. All I had to do was show up to the induction and show them I was serious, get the tattoo, and they’d give me the instructions later. I just got the tattoo today. I don’t know anything else.”

“And this MrX,” Dante asked, his mind working to put the pieces in place. “Have you ever seen him?”

The guy shook his blown-up head. “No. The guys tonight were all inductees and a tattoo guy. MrX had cameras they said they’d be watching us with.”

Dante believed him. He tilted his head to the side. “And during the entire month as an inductee-in-waiting, did you ever hear anything you think I’d be interested in? Bonus information always puts me in a very good mood, Martin.”

Martin hesitated.

“Don’t make me stand up, Martin,” Dante warned.

The guy was a wuss. “There was one thing,” he stuttered. “I don’t think MrX wanted to let it slip.”

“What?”

“About a Shadowman,” the guy said. “We were just talking about it and he said this Shadowman or whatever kind of kept his eyes on the Syndicate, so to be careful of my day-to-day activity.”

Shadowman.

Fuck.

Dante had heard about him, whoever he was, only in rumors. Even in his side of the underworld, the name was a frightening legend. And if the guy was on the Syndicate’s tail, then he had a deep, deep knowledge of their world. Dante had just hit the tip of the iceberg, and this guy was already deep in the ocean. He’d never had the reason to try and find the person, but that could change now.

“Anything else? What about MrX?” Dante asked.

The guy thought for a second before his eyes blinked. “I don’t really know, I swear. He just mentioned he had retired as a recruiter. He used to be a handler of some sort.”

Dante felt his gut tighten. He stayed quiet, waiting.

“He…,” the man swallowed. “There was this one story he told me, warning me about what happened to rats. It’s… he’s kind of pretty well-known in the group.”

Dante just blinked, flexing his fingers.

“Said he had a girl interrogated fifteen years ago in your city… because she heard some shit she wasn’t supposed to. He hired the guys and they kept her for four days, I think he said.”

“Three days,” Dante corrected, red slowly creeping at the edges of his vision, his blood rushing to his ear as the vein beside his neck began to throb.

“Y…yeah,” the guy stuttered. “He… was warning me. Telling me he had them torture and rape her just to see if she knew anything, and then had her rescued by an anonymous tip.”

Torture and rape her.

Torture. And. Rape. Her.

Rape her.

Amara.

His Amara.

At fifteen fucking years old.

All his doubts over the years solidified and suddenly memories flashed through his mind – her stiffening if he came up behind her, her hesitation the first time she’d undressed him, the panic that hit her out of nowhere in the middle of fucking sometimes. Dante had always chalked it up to her post-traumatic stress, well aware that the experience of her physical torture would never entirely leave her. He had had his doubts sometimes, but never, not once, knew she’d been violated like that. The doctor had never said a word about it during the days he’d spent at the hospital, the police report had nothing about it. She had never said a word. Not. One. Word. Every time he had been with her, fucking her brains out or eating her pussy or talking dirty to her, she had never shared something that he should have known.

And now she had vanished.

It all crashed around him, shaking his trust in the one woman he had trusted more than anything else.

Dante pulled his gun, aimed it at the man’s head, and shot. His finger didn’t leave the trigger, shot after shot ringing out until the gun ran out of bullets and the man’s body ran out of place.

It was time.

Time for him to take the throne.

Time for him to find MrX.

Time for his queen to come home.

Lorenzo Maroni’s countdown had begun.