Dante Bellucci sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his fingers steepled, his expression carved from stone. The Black Saints' empire stretched across the city like veins through a dying body—pumping wealth, fear, and death in equal measure. He ruled it all, his word law, his enemies either buried or begging.
To his right stood Elijah Hale, the cold-blooded executioner of The Black Saints. A man whose name alone was whispered like a curse, known for making men scream without ever raising his voice.
And between them, smirking like the bastard he was, sat Stanley.
Storm’s fists clenched at his sides.
His pulse was slow, controlled—but rage curled in his stomach, lethal and patient. Livvy’s nails dug into his arm, the only thing keeping him from tearing across the room and carving Stanley’s throat open right there.
Stanley’s grin widened at the sight of her, his gaze dragging over her body like she was his to assess, his to claim.
“There she is,” he crooned, voice smooth as glass. “My beautiful wife.”
Storm’s jaw ticked. She’s not yours.
The words curled on his tongue, sharp and waiting, but he didn’t need to say them. The way he stood—between her and Stanley, unmovable—said enough.
Stanley chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” he sneered. “She’s mine by law. And I want her back.”
Dante exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. His gaze flickered between them, cold, calculating.
“You brought this problem to my doorstep,” he said finally, each word deliberate, lethal. “Return her to her husband. Now.”
The room tightened. Elijah’s shark-like smile widened. Stanley’s confidence grew. Livvy stiffened beside Storm, her breath sharp, unsteady and Storm—Storm didn’t fucking move.
“No,” he said, voice flat. Final.
Dante’s eyes narrowed to slits.
His fingers tapped once against the table—a simple sound, but one that made the men around them shift uneasily.
From the corner of his eye, Storm saw Luca tense. Daniel, standing just behind him, hadn’t moved, but his hands were loose in his pockets, his body as relaxed as ever—which meant he was ready to draw a gun at any second.
Dante’s glare burned into Storm’s skull. “Stand down,” he ordered, voice dipping into something dangerous.
Storm’s grip on Livvy’s waist only tightened.
“Not happening.”
Elijah’s chuckle was slow, dripping with amusement. He leaned back, watching the room unfold like it was his favorite show. “If you’re not man enough to handle him, Dante, I’d be happy to—”
“Enough.”
The voice cut through the room like a blade.
All eyes snapped to Daniel.
He stepped forward with an easy, unbothered grace, hands still tucked in his pockets, his expression unreadable.
Dante’s gaze shifted to him, assessing. “You have something to add, Carver?”
Daniel’s lips curved in a lazy smirk. But his eyes—dark, dangerous—remained cold.
“Just a little context,” he said lightly.
Stanley scoffed. “More excuses, I’m sure.”
Daniel ignored him entirely. His gaze flicked to Dante, calm, measured. “Livvy’s not here to start a war. She’s here because this is part of an operation to find Michael.”
Stanley’s smirk faltered. “That’s bullshit.”
Daniel’s smirk widened, but it never touched his eyes. “Is it?” he murmured. “Because Michael—one of our best soldiers—went missing on Crimson Syndicate turf a month ago. And unless you don’t give a damn about getting him back, we need Livvy here.”
The air thickened.
At the mention of the Crimson Syndicate, even Dante’s expression shifted slightly.
And for the first time, a flicker of something close to unease crossed his face.
Because everyone knew who ruled the Syndicate.
The Ghost.
A name whispered in dark alleys, spoken only when necessary. A man ruthless enough to gut an entire cartel in one night and leave their bodies stacked at the border as a warning. A man no one saw coming—until it was too late.
Livvy’s breath hitched, her fingers curling into Storm’s sleeve.
Even Dante is afraid of him.
Dante’s jaw clenched for a fraction of a second before his icy gaze flicked back to Daniel.
“And why, exactly, would that be?”
Daniel shrugged, almost lazy. “Because Michael’s disappearance is the Ghost’s doing. And if you want to take him down before he amasses absolute power, this might be your last chance.” His head tilted slightly. “Unless, of course, you’d rather hand that chance over to the feds?”
Silence.
Tension coiled so tightly it was suffocating.
Then Dante leaned back in his chair, watching Storm with a slow, assessing look.
“You have one month,” he said finally. “Find Michael. Or I’ll hand her over to her husband myself.”
Storm’s smirk was all teeth.
“That’s all I need.”
Stanley’s face darkened, his control slipping, hands curling into fists. “You can’t—she’s my wife—”
Dante’s patience snapped.
His glare sliced through Stanley like a blade. “She is whatever I say she is,” he said coldly. “Now sit down and shut up before I change my mind.”
Stanley’s mouth clamped shut, his face blotched red with fury.
But he didn’t dare speak again.