Dante

DANTE CHICAGO RUTHLESS: BOOK 1 SADIE KINCAID RED HOUSE PRESS Copyright © 2023 by Sadie Kincaid All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. The moral right of the author has been asserted Cover Design: Red House Press Ltd Photographer: Xram Radge Cover Model: Cezar Augusto Editing: Hearts Full of Reads Formatting: Red House Press Ltd All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. For every reader who prefers their heroes to be of the morally gray variety. And for all of my readers, for you constant support and encouragement, I wrote Dante just for you, Love, Sadie xxx Content warning This book is intended for mature readers and contains scenes of graphic violence as well as those of a sexual nature. There is also flashbacks and discussion of past sexual assault. Contents Prologue 1. Kat 2. Dante 3. Dante 4. Kat 5. Kat 6. Dante 7. Kat 8. Dante 9. Kat 10. Kat 11. Kat 12. Dante 13. Dante 14. Kat 15. Dante 16. Kat 17. Kat 18. Kat 19. Kat 20. Dante 21. Kat 22. Dante 23. Kat 24. Dante 25. Kat 26. Dante 27. Kat 28. Kat 29. Dante 30. Kat 31. Dante 32. Kat 33. Kat 34. Dante 35. Kat 36. Kat 37. Dante 38. Dante 39. Dante 40. Kat 41. Dante 42. Dante 43. Kat 44. Dante 45. Kat 46. Dante 47. Kat 48. Dante 49. Dante 50. Dante 51. Dante 52. Kat 53. Dante Epilogue About the Author Also by Sadie Kincaid Acknowledgments Prologue DANTE - AGE 24 The tension in the room is thick and cloying, so much that I suck it in with each breath that fills my lungs. “Papá!” my older brother implores. “Please?” Our father, il padre, sits in his old leather wingback chair, a cigar in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. Smoke furls around him, giving his already formidable appearance an even more sinister look. A cruel laugh escapes his lips, mocking us — the symphony of our childhoods. Lorenzo stiffens, balling his hands into fists at his side. His biceps strain at the seams of his dinner jacket, and a thick vein bulges in his neck. “Papá?” I plead now too, not only on my brother’s behalf but my own. Despite what Lorenzo might be thinking right now, I want no part of this either. “Silenzio!” he barks, stubbing his cigar out in the large glass ashtray on his desk before pushing himself to his feet. “If you refuse to marry the woman I chose for you, then you will not…” He shakes his head and plants his hands on his desk. “You cannot be the head of this family.” Lorenzo’s scowl deepens as he glares at the man who sired us. The man who has been priming him to take over his legacy from the second he was born. Lorenzo was born to be the head of this family. It’s his birthright. It’s the reason he endured the years of mental and physical torture at the hands of this man. It was all supposed to lead him to this. “That was never part of the deal,” Lorenzo grinds out the words through clenched teeth. I know my older brother better than anyone, and right now, he’s torn between all he has been taught — to respect and fear our father, the great Salvatore Moretti, unchallenged and unyielding head of the Cosa Nostra for three long decades — and all that he has learned. As powerful and as formidable as our father is, my older brother could squash him like a bug if he chose to. Lorenzo Moretti is the most feared man in the city. He can crush a man’s skull with his bare hands. “Deal?” The word echoes around the room, bouncing off the walls. “There is no deal, ragazzo!” Boy! Lorenzo bristles at the term. He first took another man’s life at the age of fifteen and even before that he was never allowed to be a boy. Neither of us were. Because while Lorenzo has been groomed to be the head of the Moretti empire, I was born to be his second. Nothing more. Nothing less. Until today. “You refuse to marry Nicole Santangelo? Even if it costs you what you’ve been working for your entire life?” our father snarls. “I can’t marry her,” Lorenzo replies. “You’re giving all of this up for some Russian —” Lorenzo takes a step forward until his thighs are pressed against our father’s desk. “Choose your next word carefully, Papá,” he warns. “Because she will be my wife.” Our father narrows his eyes, glaring at Lorenzo. He doesn’t like to be challenged in any way. He’s unaccustomed to it, especially from his sons. But perhaps he feels the anger radiating from his first born as much as I do, because he doesn’t finish his sentence and stops short of calling Anya a whore. Anya Novikov is Lorenzo’s fiancée. He met her six months ago and he has been hopelessly in love with her ever since. Papá has not taken kindly to their union. Their engagement last night has rocked our entire existence. Nobody expected it, least of all me. I wasn’t even sure my brother was capable of love, but something about Anya has him in a chokehold. And whilst I admire that he is a man of principle, I can hardly believe he’s giving up his birthright for a woman he barely knows. “I am not saying you have to cut all ties with her,” our father says as he sits with a heavy sigh. “Marry Nicole and