Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
It wasn’t soft.
It was a goodbye.
A seal.
A final promise that whatever we might’ve had, whatever could’ve been, was now something I was walking away from to keep it from getting ruined by what I was about to become.
Char made a small sound against my lips—broken, pleading. When I pulled back, her eyes were shining, wide and devastated. “Dante,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t—”
I didn’t let her finish. Because if she begged me, if she said my name like she needed me, there was a chance the cold would crack. And if it cracked, I might not be able to do what my mind had already decided was necessary.
I stepped back.
Nita’s mouth opened, fury flaring through her grief. “You can’t just leave.”
“I can,” I cut in. “And I am.”
Char’s breath hitched. Tears spilled, sliding down her cheeks. “Dante—please.”
I stared at her for one last second.
Memorized her face.
The curve of her mouth. The bruises that would fade but never fully disappear inside her. The strength it took for her to stand here, recovering, grieving a man she barely knew but who’d nearly died trying to protect her.
Then I turned away.
My boots crunched gravel as I walked. I didn’t run. I marched steady.
I didn’t look back.
Behind me, I heard Nita say my name again, sharper now, like an order.
“Dante!”
I kept walking.
“Dante Verdone, you saved my sister. Don’t forget the good inside you. I owe you for saving her.”
I kept marching on. Because if I turned around, I might still be human.
And I couldn’t afford that.
Not anymore.
Not with Lamonte in the ground and a monster still breathing somewhere in my city.
The wind bit at my face as I reached the edge of the crowd, moving past uniforms and condolences, past folded flags and grieving families.
I felt every eye on me. Or maybe that was my imagination. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the vow, steady as a pulse in my chest and the way I was determined to fix this for good.
He would never be a problem again. And neither Nita nor Char would be dragged into what came next.
I slid into my car. Closed the door.
And for the first time since the night of the apartment, I let myself sit in the silence and feel nothing at all.
Stone cold.
Just like the grave I had left behind.
Part Two
Loco’s Last
Once a door closes, it shouldn’t be reopened.
That was Dante “Loco” Verdone’s motto. He never looked back, only ahead.
Living by the code of an outlaw was easy. But situations sometimes require giving respect to the thin blue line of the law.
He had someone who had the power and resources he needed. Except to call her meant opening a door he slammed closed.
Juanita Banks had a life she loved. Heartbreak didn’t hold her back. She refused to be crushed by a man, no matter how much he still turned her on.
He called. She answered because she felt she owed him one last marker. Deed done, this time it was Nita who walked away without looking back.
Having her close again, Loco would show the world his crazy before he lost her again. Even if it was the last thing he did, he was going to have Nita back.
Chapter 11
Nita
Thirteen years was long enough to convince yourself a wound had healed when all it had really done was scar over. The marks were soul deep but barely visibly to anyone else. I knew they existed though.
I had learned how to live with scars.
Washington, D.C. had a way of demanding that from you—polished surfaces, sharp elbows, and the quiet understanding that everyone in the room was carrying something they didn’t talk about. I had built a career in the spaces where secrets lived. Special federal investigator. Political orders. The kind that didn’t make headlines but shifted lives anyway.
I was good at it. Clinical. Precise. Detached when I needed to be.
It was the only way I had survived losing Lamonte.
It was the only way I had survived Dante leaving.
I told myself that as the train rolled south, the city bleeding away into blur and trees, my phone face-down on my thigh like it always was when I traveled. I didn’t need distractions. I didn’t need reminders.
This weekend was about Char. My baby sister—though she’d been a mother longer than I had ever planned to be one. Kids weren’t in my future and I had accepted it. Once for a short stint I thought, maybe, but work was work and my particular job was demanding.
Char met me at the door with flour on her cheek and laughter in her voice, the house already loud with small feet and big feelings. Her husband, Elijah, lifted the youngest princess onto his hip while the oldest barreled into my legs like she was tackling a suspect twice her size.
“Aunt Nita!” she shrieked, wrapping herself around my knees.