The Emperor by RuNyx
He called Damien.
After the suspicion Amara had shared with him, Dante hadn’t been able to let it go. He tried to remember his mother, her sad eyes, her wide smile, her love for him and his brother. The more he remembered, the more he realized she never would have killed herself with one of them in the room. For years, he’d hated his mother slightly for abandoning them both, and now, standing with the phone to his ear, he was nothing but rage.
It wasn’t his father. Dante knew that. For one, if his father had to kill her, he never would have married her. Once she became the wife of Bloodhound Maroni, she became untouchable. Her death had been a blow to his pride, and there had been nothing his father loved more than his ego. He had been angry, very angry, that she had thrown that insult at him, her suicide like a slap to his face.
The call connected and his brother’s voice, one he hadn’t heard in weeks, came on. “Dante!”
He could tell his brother was smiling. “How are you, Damien?”
“Good, good,” Damien said, and Dante could imagine him nodding his head. He liked doing that. Nodding, shaking out his hands, tapping his feet. Dante had learned his brother’s habits as a child, loving him as he was.
“How is Alia?” Dante asked, referring to the woman in his brother’s life. They had met through a mutual friend. She was an interior designer, and from what Dante could tell, a sweet girl good for his brother.
“Good,” Damien’s masculine voice said over the phone. “We started a dance class together.”
Dante smiled, imagining his tall brother and the tiny woman dancing, both uncoordinated as fuck. “How’s that working out?”
“It’s not,” his brother chuckled. “But we have fun.”
Dante was glad. “I’m getting married soon, by the way.”
“To Green Eye Girl?” Damien asked. Even though he knew Amara by name, Damien had fallen in love with her eyes, so much so that he had spent a month obsessed with researching green eyes and that particular shade of green.
“Yes,” Dante confirmed. “Do you want to come for the wedding?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.
“I want to,” Damien sighed. “But it’s better nobody know about me. I like my life here.”
Dante hoped one day his brother would give another answer, but he respected his wishes. Given the chance, wouldn’t he have chosen to stay out of this shithole himself?
“No worries,” he said easily, knowing Damien got upset if he felt like he’d hurt Dante. “I actually called to talk to you about mom. Is it okay if I talk about her?”
He heard Damien’s breathing pick up, and he waited.
“Yes, okay,” his brother said. “I talked about her in therapy a lot back in Morning Star.”
“You remember her?” Dante asked, surprised.
“A bit.” The sound of something tapping came over the line – pencil on wood. His brother was tapping a pencil on wood. Not good.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Dante reassured him. “We don’t have to talk about her.”
“No, I should tell you,” his brother said. “Dr. Sanders tells me I should tell you. It will help me. We were talking about these dreams I’ve been having forever but they’re the bad kind. The good are mostly sex dreams or dreams where I build things you know, but that’s not what the doctor told me to tell you.”
Dante felt his heart begin to pound. “What did he say to tell me?”
“Dreams about mom,” Damien spoke, the tapping of the pencil on wood constant in the background. “I don’t have any memory of her but I always see this dream of this man holding me and mom crying and cutting herself and so much blood, and I wake up feeling really scared. Dr. Sanders said it could be trauma from what happened to her and I should talk to you about it, because in the dream sometimes you pick me up and get me out. You’re my hero.”
The tightness in his chest had his throat locking. “Thanks for telling me that, Damien. You’ll tell me if you need anything, right?”
“Yes,” Damien said. “Talk to you later, brother.”
He hung up abruptly. Dante wasn’t surprised, used to his brother being abrupt with the phone. He stood in his study, looking out at the lawns and the lake, his mind reeling from every piece of the puzzle that was coming to light. His brother had a high-functioning brain, so while it was possible that it could be his imagination, a vivid, recurring dream like that could also be a memory.
Their mother had wanted him to hide. She had felt hunted. She had been murdered.
Dante rubbed a hand over his face, trying to discern the threads of mysteries around him that just kept getting more and more tangled.
Over the next few weeks, things stayed quiet, or as quiet as they could be for a man leading the largest mob family in the underworld. Dante had truly taken over the reins of all businesses, surgically removed all liabilities, and strategically placed in assets – both people and things – that maximized their profit.
Tristan and Morana had gone back to Shadow Port with a young Xander, with the excuse that she would try to locate his next of kin herself while Tristan talked to the boy. Dante had scoffed at that, aware that just the act of them taking the boy meant they were thinking of keeping him. Dante was happy for them, but the shadow looming over the boy’s appearance in their lives kept him skeptical, especially because it had been Xander who had coordinated their rescue with the Shadowman, even though he claimed not to have seen him.
Shadowman, or Morana’s airport asshole, was an unknown entity. He had ties to the Syndicate, and that alone made him someone Dante was extremely wary of. He didn’t know what game this guy was playing, or to what end, but he didn’t like it.
Alpha called Dante in the weeks too, telling him that while he hadn’t heard anything back from the feelers he’d put out, he was positive something would turn up. The call had been an update, but also a subtle hand reaching out, accepting the offer Dante had made to the man. It left him feeling good.
He had also begun looking into his mother’s death, trying to find any reports from all those years ago, her history, anything. So far, he came up empty.
On the ground, he had restructured his father’s resources, putting the army he’d been building over the years on the front and center of the fringe, men he had recruited and trained to make up the core of his organization. Vin, his most trusted man, he had assigned to Amara’s security. That was a good move both because Amara was comfortable in his presence and because Dante trusted Vin with her. Having seen them attached at the hip for years, he knew his presence in her life was good for her.
And she was good for Dante.
Sleeping with her in his arms every night, waking up to her flush against him, knowing there was no need to hide his love for her had been the biggest, most beautiful change in his life. Some mornings, he woke up early, just looking at the woman he had wanted for years, unable to believe he had her.
Dante scraped the statue he was working on, early morning light filtering in the new studio on this side of the house, Wuthering Heights playing on audio, as he wielded the scraper over the rough surface of the dried clay.
‘Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!’
Fuck, he should have listened to it years ago. The angst, the longing, the passion was reminiscent of his own tale of woe with Amara back then.
“Heathcliff was so swoon-worthy,” Amara’s voice from the door had him turning his neck to see her standing there, clad in one of his shirts.
Amara usually preferred wearing silk lingerie to bed, but one night when her gowns stopped going over her growing breasts, she had tossed them aside in a fit of pique, marched into his closet, grabbed his shirt, and put it on, claiming ‘these won’t outgrow me’.
He let his eye rove over her appreciatively; watching his large shirt hide her breasts and the small bump underneath, her hair braided to the side, falling over one shoulder, her beautiful eyes on his. He liked her in his shirts.
He put the scraper down as she entered the room, hitting pause on his phone to stop the book, and pulled her forward between his legs. Unbuttoning his shirt leisurely, keeping their gazes locked, he saw her pupils widen in the dark green orbs, her breathing picking up. She was horny, and she’d come to him.
They had visited the gynecologist twice over the last few weeks. On the most recent visit, Amara had confessed to being more aroused, more sensitive than usual. The doctor had simply told her it was natural, and sex was safe, and she should indulge herself as long as her hormones cooperated. It had been after that conversation that Amara had hopped on the bed for an ultrasound and Dante had seen their baby for the first time. It had been a blip, a tiny little bean on the black and white screen, and it had made something so powerful, so visceral rush through his system it had left him shaken. That was the moment the loss of their other child had hit him hard. Suddenly, that baby had become real too. He had seen that same joy and loss reflected on Amara’s face, seen her struggle with her tears and lose the battle, and they had left the room, changed.
Dante parted the sides of the shirt, breaking their gazes to look at the little bump on her belly, stretching the scars on the sides of her stomach over her skin, rounding from the edge of her panties, and it hit him again.
That was his warrior child, inside his warrior woman.
Cupping the bump with both hands, the size still small enough that it fit the span of his fingers, Dante smeared the wet clay over her skin, marking both her and their child.
He pressed his lips to her tummy, feeling her hands come to his hair.
“You’re going to be the most adored little princess in this whole world,” he murmured softly to his baby, still not knowing if it was a girl or a boy technically, but knowing in his heart it was a daughter. “Daddy already loves you so much.”
“Daddy Dante,” Amara murmured in the voice he loved so much. “I like the sound of that.”
“Be careful,” he looked up at her breasts, feeling their heaviness in his palms. “It’ll take me a second to make you dirty.”
Her nipples pebbled, the visual enough to send blood rushing to his cock, constrained in his jeans. Fuck, he loved how her body responded to his words, his voice, his everything. It made him feel like the luckiest bastard on the planet.
Without another word, he took some wet clay on the side in his hands, smearing a thin layer of it over her breasts. He knew the cold clay would stimulate her, but it would be the immediate drying that would prickle her skin, make her nerves tingle everywhere it was spread.
Her quick intake of breath told him the coolness had hit her. Dante held back, watching, mesmerized as the thin layer dried over her peaked nipples, heaving with her little gasps. He stood up, pushing his shirt over her shoulders, letting it pool around her bare feet, leaving her clad in simple black cotton panties. The light from the rising sun hit her naked body, illuminating her perfection, her scars, her flesh, showing him the rivulets of moisture in the rapidly drying clay.
He wet his hands again with the argil, spreading it over her shoulders, hearing her shuddering breaths as he walked around her.
“I’m going to stand behind you, Amara,” he leaned down to whisper in her ear, knowing it triggered her sometimes.
She nodded, her eyes closed, feeling his hands upon her flesh. Fuck, she was perfect.
He circled behind her, looking at the skin on her back, three thin strips of acid-burned flesh scarred diagonally across one hip to one blade. She probably didn’t realize he had matched the structure of his back dragon tattoo to match her back scars, from one hip to one shoulder. If anyone looked at their naked backs together, they would see symmetry – a dragon breathing fire across her back in mirrored structure, side by side.
He bent to kiss them, before straightening, smearing the clay in his hand over them.
“Dante,” she whispered, a tremor going down her spine, the vibration right under his fingers, and he continued to spread the clay all over, watching the layers dry, the scars immortalized in them.
Scooping more clay, he pressed up against her back, feeling the wetness smear over his chest, and spread his fingers over her stomach, ensconcing her bump generously with the argil, before moving it back up over her breasts. He plucked at her nipples, kissing the side of her neck, and felt her arch in his hands, her ass pushing into his hard cock. He pushed back, nestling himself between her cheeks over layers of their clothing, and her breathing stuttered.
His Amara was a breather. She moaned occasionally, screamed rarely because of her damaged vocal cords, and spoke sometimes, demanding his attention in the middle of sex. But she breathed – soft, slow, hard, fast, short, long, and so on. Dante had learned her breaths to learn her responses and anticipate her needs. He had spent years tracking the changes in them, understanding what each variation meant. He had memorized her like his favorite song.
That stutter in her breath meant she was getting close to coming.
Dante let go of her nipples and began circling his wet fingers around them, close but not close enough. “Can you come just like this, dirty girl?” he whispered into her neck, pressing his cock into her ass as she stood on her toes.
“Please,” she begged softly, her breasts heaving in his palms, her head falling back over his shoulder, her hands coming to wrap around his neck, thrusting her heavy tits higher.
Dante sucked on her neck, taking both handfuls of her stunning breasts and squeezing them, before plucking her nipples again, extending them out, the clay on her drying over her skin, definitely adding to the sensation.
“Oh god, Dante,” she mewled, her lips quivering as he continued his ministrations, humping her ass, pinching and pulling her nipples, and sucking her neck.
Her breath got shorter and shorter, her panting loud in the silent room surrounded by his sculptures, and Dante knew she was close. Opening his mouth, he nipped at the side of her neck, before biting down on her skin, hard enough to give her a hickey, and pinching her nipples hard.
She exploded, her mouth opening in a silent scream as her legs gave out, her weight supported by his hands on her breasts.
That was the first time she’d come just from stimulation above the waist and Dante felt good. There was nothing that fulfilled him more than giving this woman pleasure. It was when he took her to the stars that he felt most powerful, his own need secondary to taking her there, through any means necessary. Though nothing turned him on more than eating her pussy.
He turned her to face him and watched as she came back to herself – a vision of a woman smeared in his clay and her pleasure, naked, open, vulnerable, trusting, with heavy-lidded eyes and heaving breasts and divine beauty and carrying his child – and realized what muses were made of.
He cupped her face in his hands, overcome with the riot of emotions she inspired in him. “You’re my magnum opus, Amara,” he told her, pressing his forehead against hers, a move that always brought the turmoil in him to a standstill. “And I am your humble servant.”
“No,” she whispered, her words falling against his lips. “You are my emperor.”
After making love in the shower cleaning up, Amara had accompanied him to his study, handing Lulu to him since she couldn’t lift her anymore. The fucking cat loved to climb on his shoulder and if he stroked her, she purred right against him.
He watched Amara settle on one of the couches, taking Lulu in her arms, and begin talking as he walked around the desk, opening his suit jacket.
“So, I looked at the list of buildings you gave me,” she told him, stroking the cat, dressed in one of her flowy dresses that still fit, a choker around her neck hiding her scar. She wore that or a scarf anytime she had to leave the compound.
“And?” Dante asked, taking out his reading glasses from the top drawer, looking down at the sheet she had handed him with annotations in her curvy, neat handwriting.
“You wear glasses? How have I never seen you in glasses before?”
Dante looked up at her question, looking at her surprised face over the frames. “Just for reading,” he clarified. “You’ve probably never seen me read. I prefer listening to books, and any reading I do for reports and shit is at night here.”
“You mean when you’re here at night working, you wear those sexy glasses?” she asked.
Dante felt his lips turn up. “I wouldn’t call them sexy, but yes.”
“Hmm,” she trailed off, petting the cat. “Anyways, Vin and I went to each of the sites and looked around,” she leaned into a cushion, pulling her feet under her. “Only two of those buildings have enough space and seclusion that we’ll need for the project. They’re also both close to each other – about ten minutes walking – which I think could be a good idea for shared resources.”
Dante nodded, reading her notes on the two properties she was talking about. She was thorough in her detailing of the pros and cons of both locations, adding the proximity to the compound as a pro. “What will you need in terms of manpower?” he asked her, looking up from the sheet.
“Depending on how many kids we’re talking about.”
Dante mulled for a second. “Give me an estimate.”
Amara contemplated for a second. “I’d say one trainer and one counselor per five kids, one supervisor per twenty kids. That should allow each adult to give each child the attention they need without hampering their reserves. And security, of course, which you’ll have a better idea about.”
Dante nodded, looking down at the sheets again. “And can you arrange the trainers and counselors on our payroll?”
Amara nodded. “I should be able to. I have contacts in both the academia and training levels. I’ll make the calls and interview each one of them myself. Vin can vet them. In case I can’t, I’ll let you know. It should take about a month or two to start.”
His phone ringing interrupted them. He looked down, to see he had a meeting with one of his informers. Getting up from the seat, he pocketed his phone and buttoned his jacket, slicking his hair back from his face, and walked over to where she and the cat sat.
Placing a hand over the back of the couch, he bent down to see her raise her mouth up, ready to receive his kiss.
“You can handle it?”
“Yeah.”
“And your practice?”
“I’ll do sessions with those who need it the most.”
“And your therapy?”
“I called Dr. Das for a monthly visit.”
“And our wedding?”
“Let’s set a date, yeah?”
“Good.”
He gave her a kiss, pressed their foreheads together, and walked out to run the front of his empire, leaving her to take care of the back.