DANTE'S POV
"Unless, of course, your pride is worth more than your men's lives."
Dante studied Emilio for a long moment, letting the silence stretch between them and his fingers tapping idly against the polished surface of the table beside his glass of whiskey.
He could see the tension in the younger man's jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly against the table. Proud.
Dante leaned back in his chair, studying Emilio with quiet amusement.
Pretty. That was the first word that came to his mind.
It wasn't an insult. It was just the truth.
His suit fit him perfectly, showing off his slim frame, not the kind built for brute strength, but for control.
Emilio Valencia didn't look like the kind of man who belonged in this world. His features were too refined, his dark eyes too full of fire, his lips too soft for a man who dealt in blood and power. Even the way his hair fell just slightly messy, just slightly perfect, felt out of place here, in the underground, where everything was rough and brutal.
Yet here he was.
Dante's gaze was all over him, taking in the details. The sharp lines of his jaw, the smoothness of his skin, the way his fitted black shirt hugged his lean frame. He was elegant, in a way most men in their world weren't.
Yet, despite his smaller stature, Emilio held himself with quiet confidence, his head high, his shoulders straight.
Dante had met Valencia's father once. A hard man. Cold. Ruthless. The kind of man who built an empire with his fists before learning to control it with his mind.
And now this—this boy, with his sharp tongue and prideful eyes—was running it?
Dante wasn't sure if he was impressed or amused.
"How does someone like you end up in charge?" Dante mused, tilting his head slightly.
Emilio's dark eyes flashed. "Someone like me?"
Dante smirked. "Pretty. Young. Soft hands." His gaze flickered down to Emilio's hands, resting on the table. Strong, but not like a man who had spent his life-fighting in the streets. "Your father was a different kind of man."
Emilio didn't flinch. If anything, his jaw tightened. "My father is dead. And I'm not him.
Dante chuckled. "Clearly."
Silence stretched between them for a moment, heavy and thick.
Dante exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the table. He didn't doubt that Emilio had earned his place—he wouldn't have lasted this long if he hadn't. But it was rare to see a man like him in this world.
Most of them were like Dante. Hardened. Worn.
Emilio... he was something else.
Apologize then," he said again, smoothly this time.
"And we settle this. No war. No unnecessary bloodshed. Just two men shaking hands and moving on."
He let the words settle, watching how they hit Emilio, watching how his throat tightened, how his fists curled slightly before he forced them to relax. It was such a small thing, but Dante saw it for what it was.
Pride.
He couldn't deny the thrill of it, the way this moment stretched between them like a blade balanced on the edge of a fingertip. One wrong move and it would all come crashing down. And yet, he found himself enjoying it.
A challenge. A warning. A threat wrapped in velvet.
He also saw it then—the change in Emilio's gaze. Not fear, Emilio wasn't afraid. If anything, he was weighing his options, deciding whether to spit in Dante's face or swallow the insult for the sake of his people.
Dante almost hoped he'd refuse.
What was it about this man that made him want to push? To press harder just to see how much resistance he could take before he finally snapped? Was it the way he held himself as if he refused to be moved by anyone?
He had never heard of anything tangible this young man had done.
The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights. Outside, their men waited, guns heavy at their hips, ready to spill blood if a single word demanded it. But inside this room, it was just them. Two of them opposite sides of a table and a battlefield,
Dante smirked. "Say the words, Valencia. That's all it takes."
Emilio exhaled slowly, his gaze locked onto Dante's, unwavering. For a moment, Dante thought he might do it, might give in and offer some shallow, meaningless apology just to walk away from this unscathed.
But then, Emilio's lips parted, and what he said instead made Dante's smirk falter just slightly.
"I don't believe in apologies that mean nothing."
A refusal. Not aggressive, not reckless—just a quiet, unwavering truth.
Dante studied him, his amusement shifting into something sharper, something darker. He should have been angry. He should have seen this as an insult, as open defiance that needed to be stamped out before it could fester.
But instead, he felt something maybe intriguing.
The tension between them had thickened, heavy and unspoken. The apology had not come. Instead, an impasse had formed, a line neither was willing to cross. Dante could see it now—Emilio would never bow. Not out of fear, not out of strategy. It wasn't in his nature.
A slow smirk pulled at the corner of Dante's lips. His mood filled with anger and he felt insulted by this young man. He needed a way to win this war.
He reached for the glass of whiskey beside him, took a slow sip, and then set it down with deliberate ease. His fingers tapped against the wood, a soft, steady rhythm, as an idea curled its way into his mind.
"Then a duel between us as our men watch might solve this" Dante finally said,
He wasn't ready to leave this case unsolved. That was an opportunity for the others to do the same thing with the mindset that he wouldn't do anything to them.
And he needed to put this young man to a test.
Emilio's eyes narrowed slightly, skepticism moving across his eyes. "A duel?"
Dante's smirk deepened. "Not with guns. Not with knives and in a ring." He let the pause linger, savoring the moment before delivering the twist. "A duet."
Emilio blinked, clearly thrown off. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Dante's tone and gaze were sharp, unwavering. "You see, fighting is easy. Men draw their weapons, and the outcome is always the same someone bleeds, someone wins. Predictable. But this..." His voice dipped lower, more deliberate. "This is a different kind of battle."
Emilio was still watching him, worried and uncertain.
Dante leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table between them. "You want to play the game without going down, Valencia. Can you keep up with the rhythm of the game?"
Emilio hesitated, his fingers tightening just slightly. Dante saw the battle of conflict in his expression. The refusal that wanted to come, and also the hesitant challenge.
A slow hum of satisfaction moved in Dante's chest.
Yes. He had him now. And soon, Emilio would regret ever thinking he could stand him.