[ D A N T E ]

"It's done, Dad."

He's in his office, because of course he is. Curled forward, typing away, lights dim, screen bright. He doesn't even bother to look at me.

"Fang says youse let a girl get away."

That asshole—he couldn't keep his lips shut?

"She was some kind of shifter. She's on our side, and she was outside anyway, so—"

"My boy." Dad stands. He's a monster of a man, perpetually wolfish, perpetually giant, eyes red, giant hands as claws, mouth half-stuck as a maw. I take a step back, heart fluttering. "Naw, don't run from me. Come closer." His heavy voice thickens with a Capital-C Commandment. And as alpha of the pack, I can't disobey him when he barks out Commands. I've inherited that gift—or curse. It works best on my pack, but I can command others, too—with varying levels of success.

Like the woman from my dream.

I suck in a breath, and like a magnet, I'm pulled to the desk. Dad chuckles, gesturing for me to get behind it. My body follows. I watch him, because there's nothing else I can do.

He crouches forward, squinting, and brushes his paw-fingers across my cheeks, my stubble. I try not to wince. His body burns.

"You're my body and my blood. The only thing I got, because when you came out, you were kicking and screaming, a little wolf already, like me, and you ruined your Mama's body so bad that she could never give birth again."

I remember this story. Dad has always made sure I never live it down.

"You'se my legacy, Dante. All I got." He leaned close to whisper him a secret. "Y'know, peace—it's like stained glass. It's beautiful, decorative: us kings, us alphas, we'll hang it on our walls, pray to the god it represents, let the light behind it tan our skins and warm our furs. But you throw one stone, one small stone, and you shatter it entirely. There are too many stones, and much too little glass."

He's told me this before, when I was young, when I still loved him and and looked up to him and thought he was a capital-GM-Good Man. He ducked down, voice low, like it was a secret only we shared.

And then he repeated what he told me to the pack the day later. Everyone was charmed.

My dad has many secrets, many other women he lusts for; many other children. He has many stones to throw—and many betrayals, handed down.

Like now. Does he not remember how many times he's given that line? He's already broken the glass between us.

His breath is angry. He's expecting me to say something, but I give him nothing.

Because it's all he's ever given me.

"Dante." Dad says after a pause, impatient. "Tell me why you thought it was okay to disobey me."

"We don't have many allies here, not with everyone tightening their belts, the fear campaigns. If we branch out, work with other paranormals—"

"Tell me why you thought it was okay to disobey me!" he snarls, shoving me to the ground. My legs buckle; I collapse with a sharp gasp. The Commandment shudders through me, from my toes to my heart to the tip of my tongue.

"Because I didn't respect your order! Because I don't respect you—"

I try to twist the words, change them, but his will is too strong, and I'm too busy trying to fight the Commandment that I don't even notice the leather shoe that slams against my cheek. I'm thrown back and slam against the wall, reinforced wall unmoving beneath the impact. The room darkens. Pain spreads out from between my shoulder blades. But nothing breaks.

This time.

I slide down the wall, collapsing onto the ground. Dad faces me from afar, lifting his chin. "That's what I thought."

I watch him. My wolf stirs from the action; I can feel him inside me, skin shuddering, nails and teeth lengthening, sharpening—

But I shove the instincts down instead. I know that I can't win a fight with him.

"This is a dog-eat-dog world, my son. And youse gotta be ruthless to survive. It means makin' tough decisions. Packs have turned against packs; people against people—look at the D'ambroso pack! Breaking away when those damn rats raided their restaurant. The cops don't love us no more, not even our men. The internet turns against us. The cameras watch. People starve. History's lost. The city gets trashed. We don't got help here. We only got each other. And we're family."

He looks me up and down, huffing. Flipping between softness and cruelty. An unstable pendulum, and with each passing day, the pendulum's blade feels closer to my neck. It swings, callously, not caring what—or who—it slices open.

"Get up. You look pathetic."

Being silent is the only way to be with him. I move to my feet, slowly, trying to remain impassive—but the pain's nearly toppling me. Thankfully it should heal in a day—wolf blood means speedier recoveries, thank God—but this wasn't necessary. He could've just told me off.

"You gotta mate with Bianca. A girl by your side will make you stronger. She'll tend to your wounds." He rubs his face. "But for now, clean up your own. Get out of here."

He always ends with the 'mate' comment. Expecting a legacy.

"Great debrief, Dad." I mutter, staggering out of the room, holding my back. I have my own place, but it always feels strange to be in my childhood home. It's an apartment that my parents enchanted, somehow, to look like a gorgeous Italian villa. Chestnut wooden trim, velvet curtains, dark leather couches, golden chandeliers. The lighting is always dark and warm. Outside is a pool, a vineyard, and a perpetually sunny day.

But it's connected to New York City's Little Italy, the three biggest ones: Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan. Magical tunnels built into the brick. They used to be much more frequent.

It's too late to get back to my apartment, and I'm much too sore to even try, so I stagger towards my childhood room. The house is cavernous; the magic—the stregheria; Italian American witchcraft—distorts things. A wall's an inch off; maybe a tile dips more than intended. Sometimes the space flickers, unstable. But it's held steady. And it will.

The staircase twists, and I continue down the hall, watching every third step glow with an enchantment. Multiple hand-carved wooden doors, high ceiling, faint light, fanciful Persian carpentry below. My room is at the end of the hallway; I turn the door, step in.

It's the same as when I left for college; Mom makes sure nothing changes. There's my mini-library, my piano and guitar; the space-themed bed from when I was a kid, posters of different movies, musicians, authors, artists—both human and paranormal. Old rock bands and alternative bands for when I thought I was an edgy kid—misunderstood, alone. Classic movies; I had my cinema snob era. Artists—surreal art, experimental work;

A painting of a wolf I attempted years ago...and failed miserably at. It looks more like a donkey. Seeing it always makes me smile, though.

I kick off my boots, shed my clothes, and fill a bath in the attached bathroom. Everything is golden and white marble; it always made me feel like a prince.

This place is charged with memories, I realize—good and bad. Like the bath. Every year, it got smaller—but I was just getting larger, filling into the man I am now. I can hardly fit into this bath anymore, and I'm no monster, not like my dad. I'm just short of six feet tall.

The hot water stings; I shudder, but lean deeper into it, glancing across myself. Most of the men I'm around are heavily tattooed, using their body as a canvas. The only markings I have are scars. The idea of permanence is an uncomfortable one—even for something as simple as ink.

There's already bruising across my chest. It's a faint bloom of color, like ink in water, across the faint ripple of muscle. I suck in a breath and exhale. All of this for a damn woman's life. I try to think of what made me want to spare her, beyond the logical option—allies, shifters protecting shifters—but I think of her stare. Impossibly dark. She was angry when she saw me. She wanted answers.

And I scrubbed it from her brain with a Commandment.

The thought makes me sick, but it's self-preservation. I gotta do this to survive. Buckle, follow the orders—then break it all apart once I'm on top. The deaths now are short-term sacrifices, fewer than the many more who will die in the future.

Dad just needs to die first.

And I need to figure out how to get Bianca back here.

I drag myself underwater, head flat against the bottom of the bathtub. I open my eyes. From down here, the bright light's like staring at the sun from the ocean: it's all pure, white, blurry light, rippling with the water. My lungs tighten as I remain, and wait.

I used to do this, push myself to my limits, for him. Nearly drowned for him. Nearly died for him.

And now, I scream, bubbles rushing from my mouth, surfacing in silence. I do it for myself.