Chapter 11
1745 Words
The apartment was filled with the comforting, dull sound of sizzling meat and boiling water. Letty, still vibrating from the forced intimacy of the drive with Dante and the shock of his proprietary commands, was preparing dinner.
The door finally opened, and Peter stumbled in. He looked worse than usual. His exhaustion was a physical burden, making him appear years older than forty, his professional façade crumpled by the realities of his new war.
Letty set the table. She was placing a hot plate of shepherd's pie—a simple, comforting, Detroit dish—in front of his seat when Peter finally spoke, his voice low and defeated.
"This whole city is sick, Nicolette," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He didn't ask how her day was; his world was a constant loop of his mission. "The sheer scale of the operation here... the drug trafficking, the guns, the money laundering. It's deep. Deeper than I thought."
He sat heavily, already pulling out a sheaf of papers covered in blurry flowcharts and names.
Letty placed a cold bottle of beer next to his plate and sat across from him with her own food. She loved her father, and seeing him so drained was painful, but she hated how he never really saw her—how his grief had consumed every available emotional resource, leaving only the husk of a DEA agent obsessed with vengeance.
Peter stabbed his fork into the pie, his attention still on the unseen battle. "It all leads back to one family," he continued, speaking more to the wall than to his daughter. "They seem to be the head of it all, untouchable. We're talking about billions. We're talking about having practically everyone on their payroll."
He paused, finally locating the name on his flow chart.
"The Rossi family."
The name landed like a physical blow. Letty’s heart surged into her throat. She was holding a water glass and for a terrifying second, she almost dropped the glass entirely, the cup slipping in her numb fingers. She managed to stabilize it, her muscles clenching tight.
Peter, buried in the dark minutiae of his revenge, didn't notice the sudden widening of her eyes, the desperate tightening of her grip, or the slight tremor in her hands.
He sighed, pushing the paper away. "Antonio Rossi. He runs the whole thing. But he doesn't have me on the payroll. Never me. I'm going to find the weak point. I'm going to dismantle them from the inside out."
Letty finally placed her plate down. She had been publicly claimed by the Mafia Prince an hour ago, and her father was swearing their destruction across the table. The dramatic irony was a bitter, choking taste in her mouth.
She sat quietly, pushing a potato around her plate, feeling the weight of the impossible secret she now carried.
After a few minutes of strained silence, Peter forced himself to look at her, fulfilling his parental obligation. "So," he asked, attempting a casual tone that missed by miles. "How are you doing? Everything okay at the school? Make any friends?"
Letty couldn't help but let out a soft, sardonic chuckle. "If you want to call them that, sure."
She started eating, then spoke the lie that cemented her betrayal. "In fact, they invited me to a... slumber party."
Peter nodded, already distracted by the thought of his files. "Slumber party? Kids still doing those these days? Well, just be safe, Nicolette."
Letty nodded, her movement small and submissive.
Peter immediately returned to his obsession, leaving Letty to eat her dinner in the chilling, empty reality of her father's negligence. He meant well, but he was so consumed with grief and vengeance that he had no room to see his daughter, or the immense danger he had just ushered her into.
Letty spent the weekend in a state of nervous suspension, the terrifying promise of the Mafia Princess’s slumber party and the MMA fight hanging over her. Friday was the day, she thought, and then realized, with a rush of relief, that it was still only Monday morning. Her brain was already short-circuiting from the sheer, new volume of high-stakes information.
She meticulously dressed in her Westwood uniform—the plaid skirt and black shirt—making sure the tie was perfectly knotted. Peter was already gone, lost in the early hours of his vengeance.
Letty grabbed her backpack, locked the apartment door, and turned around.
Right on cue, as if summoned by the locking mechanism, Dante's black Shelby rolled to a stop at the curb.
Dante stepped out, already walking around the hood of the car. He was in his own uniform: a crisp black button-up shirt, the matching plaid tie slightly loosened, and the plaid pants stretched taut across his massive thighs. The uniform, rather than unifying him with the students, only emphasized his difference—a six-foot-three column of controlled power.
He stopped, his chocolate eyes fixed on her, and his familiar, arrogant smirk flashed.
“Good morning, little one.”
Letty felt a nervous flutter in her chest. The way he said the proprietary name—the smooth, gravelly sound of it—was both intimidating and intensely exciting.
She walked down the steps, her movement hesitant. Dante stood waiting, holding the door open for her. She slid into the leather seat.
As Dante closed the door and moved to the driver's side, Letty finally spoke, the surprise overriding her usual timidity.
“I didn’t think you were serious about picking me up.”
Dante settled into his seat, the scent of his cologne filling the small space. He raised an eyebrow, the hint of light stubble accentuating the hard line of his jaw.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Letty hesitated, staring down at her tightly clasped hands. She shrugged, offering the truth she believed.
“Because I’m… me.”
Dante’s expression softened—a rare, brief shift that made his handsome face look younger and momentarily less lethal. He licked his lips slowly, his gaze holding hers.
“And that’s exactly why,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. “Because I want to get to know you.”
Letty’s breath hitched. That was the core of the mystery—the one question she couldn't answer.
Before she could stop herself, she whispered the question that had plagued her since their first encounter.
“Why?”
Dante didn't answer immediately. He stared at her, his usual smirk replaced by a look of genuine contemplation. He honestly had no idea why. He didn't know why her timidity didn't bore him, why her intellect was so fascinating, or why he was compelled to claim her when he could have any girl he wanted.
Dante took a slow, heavy breath, making a rare admission. “I’m not sure, Nicolette. I honestly don’t know.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, the shared silence more intimate than any conversation.
The truth of his confusion hung in the air—the first real, shared honesty between them. Dante finally gave a decisive shake of his head, ending the vulnerability. He turned the key, and the powerful engine roared to life, pulling them out onto the road toward Westwood.
The rest of Monday was an exercise in mental gymnastics for Letty. She tried to focus on her classes, but the memory of Dante’s possessive eyes and his casual claim over her transportation made the silence heavy with anticipation.
During the short break between second and third period, Letty was at her locker, quickly switching textbooks, when a breathless voice called her name.
“Nicolette! Wait up!”
Brenda rushed over, her face creased with worry, her glasses slightly askew. She didn't bother with pleasantries.
“I have to ask you, and be honest with me,” Brenda whispered, leaning in close. “How did you get in with the Rossi twins? Suddenly you’re sitting at their table, and now Dante is driving you to school? How?”
Letty shut her locker, the loud clack seeming to cut the mounting tension. She tried to appear nonchalant, shrugging her small shoulders. “I’m not entirely sure. Isabella needed a flyer for the cheer squad, and Dylan suggested me.”
Brenda’s thick red curls shook as she leaned even closer, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper.
“Nicolette, listen to me. Isabella doesn’t do things out of the kindness of her heart. She has motives. You’re a tool to her right now, nothing more. She doesn’t tolerate rivals, especially not for her brother.”
Brenda glanced quickly down the hall, her fear palpable. “And as for Dante…”
Letty's heart hammered against her ribs, the familiar, dark excitement rising at his name.
“He conquers women,” Brenda continued, her voice trembling slightly. “He uses them as his playthings. Everyone knows his reputation. He breaks them down until they’re obsessed, and he gets off on the complete control. I hear he’s really big on that whole D&S thing. Dominance and Submission. He wants absolute surrender, absolute control.”
The moment the terms were spoken, the truth of their relationship—the silent, aggressive power struggle—was given a name. Letty froze, the sheer bluntness of the revelation stunning her.
The school bell shrilled, forcing the crowded hallway to suddenly surge into motion.
“Just watch your back,” Brenda warned, grabbing her arm one last time before rushing toward her next class. “Please, don’t fall for the act.”
Letty was left standing in the sudden emptiness of the hallway, clutching her books. Brenda's words about Dante's dominance should have been a final, terrifying deterrent, but they weren't.
Instead, the explicit mention of Dominance and Submission acted like a key in a lock. It explained the tremor in her legs when he looked at her, the involuntary submission in the car, and the raw, shameful pleasure in her s*x dream. Her mind, conditioned by trauma to seek control and order, was finding a perverse, magnetic comfort in the promise of absolute surrender to a man who craved absolute dominance.
Letty took a slow, deep breath, the realization settling heavy and warm in her chest. She was terrified of Dante Rossi, but she was now strangely curious about the possibility of his claim.
- Writer
