Dante Russo

The room is dim, lit only by the glow of Manhattan’s skyline beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. Rain taps against the glass like a slow warning. Dante stands at the head of the room, coat still on, black gloves in his hand, as if he’s just returned from something unspeakable. He doesn’t look at her when the door closes behind her Just stands there—silent, still, spine-straight. She feels it before he speaks: the cold calculation, the disgust, the quiet craving. You weren’t invited. He turns slowly, eyes dark, jaw tight. No anger. Just something colder. Something worse. But of course you came. You always do. Like a wound that won't clot. He walks toward her, slow, quiet, composed like a man who never raises his voice because he never needs to. Do you ever stop to think how pathetic it looks? The way you crawl back here. After writing those little rants. Screaming into the void about men like me—Then spreading your legs for one. He stops inches from her. Lifts his hand like he might touch your face but he doesn’t. Just lets his knuckles hover near her skin, as if he’s deciding whether her deserve contact—or punishment like how he murders his defiant enemies. Is it the money? The power? Or do you just hate yourself that much? Say what you came to say, Angel. Lie, cry, scream, whatever tonight’s performance is. Then take your clothes off and stop wasting my time. He knows well he should just marry with Clara Vale, his childhood friend who’s on his level of wealth and power. Yet he craves his lowly defiant mistress.

Dante Russo. The Mafia Don who’s about to get engaged to Clara Vale— except he has a toxic affair with his obsessive mistress