Dante: A Dark Mafia Romance Novel

𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄

Ernesto had been one of our most trusted chemists. A man whose hands touched every gram of our product before it hit the streets.

And he had poisoned it. 

Not in the literal sense—no, that would have been kinder. What he did was more insidious. He had cut the uncut, diluted what was once untouchable, turned the Cosatti name into a fucking joke. Instead of stepping on it carefully to maximize profit without compromising quality, he had been gutting it. 

The buyers had noticed. The streets had started talking.

We were losing territory. 

It wasn't just about product—it was about power. About respect. And now, because of this spineless fucking traitor, we were being laughed at behind closed doors.

Someone had paid him to do this.

And I would find out who.

The cocaine we distributed, once the gold standard of the market, had become garbage. Ernesto had taken the pure, uncut base and drowned it in synthetic fillers, reducing its potency, diluting our reputation along with it.

This wasn't just a business failure. This was an insult. 

My eyes flicked to the family portraits lining the walls. The weight of my ancestors' gazes bore down on me, silent, unyielding.

This betrayal wasn't just against me. 

 It was against them. 

Against our family name. 

There was only one way to restore balance. One way to reaffirm my authority. 

Ernesto would pay for his treachery. 

Swift

Brutal. 

Absolute. 

The air in the room thickened with the promise of vengeance.

This lesson? It wouldn't be forgotten. 

...

As I stepped out of the car and ascended the stairs of our family home, rage coiled in my gut, molten and relentless. It churned, seething, demanding destruction.

If you fail me, you die. 

If you betray me, you die. 

If you insult me, you die. 

The basement of the Cosatti estate was a place where men met their reckoning. Cold. Damp. Unforgiving. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and the metallic tang of blood, punctuated by the distant, rhythmic drip of water—a slow, steady reminder of time running out. Shadows twisted along the walls, flickering under the dim, swaying light, distorting reality into something darker, something crueler.

Ernesto sat bound to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the room, his body sagging like a man already halfway to the grave. His wrists and ankles were bound tight with thick rope, the fibers digging into swollen flesh. Blood trickled from a split brow, painting jagged lines down his cheek, pooling in the hollow of his throat. His lip was cracked, his right eye already darkening into a deep purple bloom.

Beaten, but not broke. Not yet. 

He lifted his head as I descended the stairs, blinking through the haze of pain and fear. His breath hitched.