Page 23 of Dante

“Does it really, Uncle?”

“Well, you’ll be the judge of it,” he says, gesturing toward the door.

“It’s where people go to gamble, and where the Riccis make enough money for Dante to buy this ten-million-dollar penthouse. Come. My car is waiting downstairs.”

I look at myself in the mirror one last time. Part of me thinks about changing into something more conservative. Then again, the girl in the reflection looks like she belongs in a den of thieves.

I follow him out to the elevator, my pulse racing.

Downstairs Silvio settles me in the back of a long, black limo.

We weave through slightly industrial-looking streets until we reach a building that looks like a box of black glass. It’s sleek and modern, with an elegant sign that spells out Dante’s Inferno.

Silvio leads me around to a back entrance.

“After you, my dear,” he says, opening the door to a bank of elevators.

When the door opens, the interior is finished in a polished silver material that reflects everything—including my own long, black hair.

A wave of discomfort wells up in my stomach. What is Dante going to say when he sees me? Will he like it?

We descend below the first floor to level minus-two.

“This is the casino floor,” Silvio says as the doors slide open. “This is where the magic happens.”

Before I can even see the room, the sound hits me: the mechanical trill of slot machines and the sharp smack of pool cues.

The air carries a very faint aroma of smoke, the majority likely pulled away by high-end HVAC machines. The male clientele appear to be mostly in their fifties and sixties. They’re wrapped in expensive suits, their faces tight with focus.

I don’t see any women gambling, but there are plenty of scantily dressed girls walking around.

The cocktail girls wear revealing uniforms that look like a more erotic form of a classic bunny outfit, minus the tail.

Their legs are encased in sheer stockings with a dark seam running up the back and blatantly shocking string bikini panties.

I pull in a breath as one bends over to pick up a napkin she dropped. Two men jab each other and stare.

“My office is this way,” Silvio says, guiding me through gamblers, scantily clad servers, and flashing lights.

By the time he sits me down in his office, I’m vibrating with a new kind of nerves.

“Relax,” he says. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you, Uncle. Your casino is beautiful. I’m so glad you showed me. But can I see Dante?”

“In a moment,” Silvio says. “First, I’d like to ask you about⁠—”

He’s cut off by a sharp knock at his door.

Silvio doesn’t look annoyed. If anything, he looks like he was expecting the interruption.

He shouts for the visitor to enter, and the heavy mahogany door swings open.

Two men in fancy, expensive suits enter. They’re dragging a struggling man between them.

The guy looks to be in his late twenties or early thirties, his once-sharp suit now stained with sweat.

His wide eyes dart around the room, and when they land on Silvio, they fill with a frantic, absolute panic.