Page 112 of Devil in Disguise

The space between us vanished, and I pulled her into my arms, holding her tightly, as if fearing she might disappear again. The world outside was chaos, but in this moment, we were a fragile peace. Together, we faced an uncertain future, but for now, the past could wait. We had found each other, and that was enough.

The space between us imploded, almost as if a vacuum sucked us together. My fingers dug into the silk of her hair, a frantic need to possess her, to anchor her to me for all time. The air crackled with the raw energy of a thousand storms raging outside, a symphony of destruction. Against my chest, her heart hammered a frantic, fragile, desperate rhythm. The scent of her skin—a wild blend of rain and something fiercely, intoxicatingly her—filled my senses, a heady drug against the encroaching darkness.

This wasn’t just peace; it was a defiant bloom in a wasteland.

Our future was a jagged cliff, promising a perilous fall, but damn the consequences. Let the past rot in its own hell. I had found her, the woman who held my soul captive from the moment our eyes first locked, a woman whose darkness mirrored and ignited my own. Her lips, bruised and trembling, tasted of defiance and desperation, a bittersweet echo of all we’d endured. Cupping her face, my thumbs tracing the delicate bones beneath her skin, I devoured her. A ravenous kiss that stole the very breath from her lungs, a desperate plea carved into the flesh of our desperate embrace. This wasn’t enough. It was everything.

The truth could wait.

The lies would unravel.

But for now, in this fleeting moment, we were together, and that was all that mattered.

Chapter Forty-Five

Dante

“Damn it, Sinclair! You can’t make me do this!” I shouted. My words caught in my throat like a bitter pill as I followed him into the large house. He ignored me, of course. Why did I even bother? Why, after all these years of knowing exactly who he was—closed off, inconsiderate, stubborn, a monumental asshole—did I still cling to this pathetic hope that he could change? It was a fool’s errand, a desperate grasp at a ghost of a memory I had idealized, a past that his actions had poisoned.

The truth, the ugly, festering truth, was that I needed him. Even after everything he’d done—the betrayal, the lies, the casual cruelty that had left scars deeper than any physical wound—I still wanted the son of a bitch in my life. My morals screamed against it, a deafening chorus of righteous anger. Cooperating with Sinclair was not just a betrayal; it was a desecration, a blight in the face of everything I’d fought for. He’d hurt me before, deeply, irreparably, shattering my trust like a fragile glass. And yet, here I was, willingly sacrificing those very principles on the altar of my desperate, pathetic need.

This wasn’t just about the clubs, the looming war, or even the chilling knowledge that he held the power to leverage me, to use Danny, to threaten my daughter. It was about something far more insidious, far more personal. It was about the gnawing fear that without him, I was nothing but a faded photograph, a forgotten name. The thought sent a shiver of self-loathing down my spine.

“You will help me do this, Dante, or I will make sure you never see your daughter again. Am I clear?”

His words hung in the air; a poisoned dart aimed straight at my heart. “Don’t threaten me, Sinclair,” I seethed, the familiar anger a thin shield against the icy terror gripping me. “I’m not the weak boy you remember.”

“No, you’re just the pathetic version of the man I raised you to be.” Sinclair’s casual cruelty was a knife twisting in the wound. He was the Devil, yes, but I also knew a chilling truth: Sinclair had shaped me, molded me into the very man I now was. He’d taught me ambition, ruthlessness—the very tools Sinclair now wielded against me. The irony burned.

I clenched my fists as I pictured my daughter, her bright smile, her trusting eyes. I’d sworn to protect her, to shield her from the darkness that had consumed my life. But Sinclair’s threat wasn’t a bluff; I knew it in my gut. I’d seen his capacity for violence, the chilling lack of remorse in his eyes. His own moral compass, once firmly pointed towards good, now spun wildly, disoriented.

A wave of nausea washed over me. Helping Sinclair meant betraying everything I believed in. It meant becoming the very thing I hated—the ruthless, amoral man Sinclair had always wanted me to be. But refusing... refusing meant risking everything for my family that I might never see again. My choice was a poisoned chalice I was forced to drink. I felt the first bitter drops now, the taste of compromise, the slow, sickening descent into a moral abyss. I could almost feel the weight of my failure settling on my shoulders, a crushing burden of a bad choice that would haunt me for the rest of my life. My regret, sharp and searing, was already beginning to bloom.

I couldn’t. No matter the cost, I refused to give into this man. To hell with the consequences.

“No.”

One word. Simple. To the point.

And yet, that one word felt hollow, almost as if the word itself was a lie.

Sinclair’s eyes narrowed, a flash of surprise quickly masked by the cold, calculated expression I knew so well. He hadn’t expected me to refuse, especially not after his threat.

The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words and the weight of our shared history. I could see the wheels turning in his head, the manipulation, the strategizing—all the despicable traits he’d instilled in me. I felt a surge of disgust, not only for him, but for myself. I was a reflection of the very thing I despised.

“You leave me no choice, Dante,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “I had hoped we could resolve this amicably, but it seems you’ve forgotten your place.”

My blood boiled at his words, but I bit back my retort. I knew better than to fall for his goading. Sinclair thrived on conflict, on twisting people to his will. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I turned and walked away, my back straight, my head held high. I wouldn’t let him see the turmoil within me, the doubt and fear that threatened to consume me. I had made my choice, and now I would have to live with the consequences, whatever they may be. But I refused to be a puppet on Sinclair’s strings any longer.

“Alright,” he sighed, the sound of resignation in his voice. Stopping, I turned as he sat in his chair behind his desk. The man looked tired, worn out, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to think. I’d never seen him so dejected, so wary, almost as if time and space had caught up with him. “You want to know why? I will tell you.”

I stood there, waiting.

“Unlike you and the others, I wasn’t born at the Trick Pony. Unlike you, I didn’t have the typical idyllic childhood. I didn’t have the pleasure of sleeping in my bed at night, knowing I was safe. Some nights I still lay awake, waiting for the ghosts of my pasts to enter my room to finish what she started. It’s why I keep my room barren. Just a simple chair. Veronica Meeks was a narcissistic, vindictive, vile sadist, and I fucking hated her. Her greatest joy in life was her endeavor to break me. To mold me into something sinister, something so disgusting that she could use at will. She almost succeeded, too.”

Stiffening, I couldn’t believe it. Sinclair never cursed. Never in all my years had I ever heard him use foul language. Perception was everything to Sin. Yet looking at him now as he lowered his guard, I could almost see the broken, scared boy he once was.

Sinclair’s unexpected revelation left me rooted to the spot, my anger and defiance momentarily forgotten. I had always known he held a certain power over me, a power that stemmed from the role he played in my upbringing. But hearing him speak of his own troubled past, of a vulnerability so carefully concealed, shook me to my core. In that moment, I saw a glimpse of the boy he once was, a boy haunted by fears and insecurities, a boy like me, who was shaped by the darkness that surrounded him.

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